The Irish Assignment
by purdys pal
Summary: With his old job within his grasp, Michael Westen should be feeling on top of the world, but a shiny H & K USP with a silver slide and a small stack of photographs is reminding him of all he is about to lose... The Irish Assignment was inspired by several chapters from one of my early writing efforts entitled "The First Time." A NEW Chapter has been posted.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Containing vastly expanded content, **"** The Irish Assignment" has grown out of several chapters from one of my early writing efforts entitled "The First Time."

The original story was written a long time before S7 ep2 where in canon Michael met Fiona in 2001. So I had based the setting for this story on the information gained from the storyline in the Season Two episode **Sins of Omission** , wherein Samantha Keyes hints that she has a nine year old son who Michael fathered and from where Michael tells Fiona "You don't marry someone when you're in love with someone else," which would mean Michael last saw Samantha sometime in 1999 and by then he was already in love with that someone else. This is now a stand-alone story with lots of added content and also BETAed by the lovely Jedi Skysinger.

On a separate note, this story **DOES NOT** follow the backstory of **any** of the other stories written by myself, Jedi Skysinger or Jedi's Pal which use a common Glenanne family history and a shared storyline of Fiona and Michael's lives prior to the start of the series, although some elements remain.

 **THE IRISH ASSIGNMENT**

 **ooOoo**

 **Prologue**

 **2009**

Michael Westen knew he should be celebrating. He was on his way back in, back into a what had been a highly successful and very satisfying career that had spanned nearly two decades, a career he felt he had been born to do.

He had been skeptical at first about Tom Strickler's claims that he alone had the necessary connections to reach out to the men with the power to get him his old job back, but the so-called "agent to the spies" had pulled it off. or at least that was what he was expecting to hear when he met with his CIA contact Diego Garcia later on in the morning.

Only instead of celebrating his return to the CIA fold, he was sitting upstairs in his loft, brooding over his girlfriend's... Ex-girlfriend's... Fiona's, H and K compact 45 with the silver slide.

The burnt, though hopefully soon to be reinstated, spy ran his hand over the checkered grip of the weapon. It was her favorite hand gun and he had made a promise to clean it for her after the fiery Irishwoman had claimed the inner mechanisms had been ruined by swamp water because she'd had to spend an afternoon out in the Everglades with only Sam Axe for company in order to rescue his butt from Czech terrorists.

Only he had gotten so wrapped up in his desire to get his job back, he had put the gun in a drawer and forgotten all about it. Forgotten about it until Fiona had refused to help him on a job and told him she couldn't be with him anymore.

Michael sighed heavily and carefully placed the now immaculate weapon on his work top next to his cleaning kit. He had been taking advantage of her loyalty for so long, he didn't give it a second thought anymore. But now she was saying she was through with him and this time he wasn't sure she didn't mean it.

With his hands free, he opened and reached into the drawer under the work top and brought out his desperately small selection of photographs, the only mementos he had of their long and at times highly dysfunctional relationship.

They were precious to him and, against all the rules of trade craft, he had kept them with him carefully hidden wherever he had been sent by the company. They had helped in some small way to relieve the pain when he had been ordered to cease all contact, when he was no longer with her and later on in the times between their intermittent secret rendezvous. He had always had these photos and now because of what he had done, he was going to be left with just the memories again.

He had regretted it as soon as he did it. He really had. The slap… his hand had been open but he'd hit her with all his strength for the sake of the job, to keep up their cover intact. He had seen the shock and anger register on her face, followed by fear... Now he had not only lost her, he had lost her trust and respect too.

Staring down at the photograph in his hand, he idly traced a finger around her face, touching the tip to her lips then running it along the outline of her long flowing hair. He could clearly remember how he felt when he cupped her face between his hands and how he would gently run his fingers through her hair, moving the long tresses back off her face so he could plant kisses on her soft tender yielding lips.

He continued to stare at the photo as he leant back in the old office chair, in his mind's eye, he remembered the first time he had seen her. Not the photo clipped inside the cover of her British Intelligence file. But the first time he actually saw her in person…. The first time they kissed, the first time they had fallen onto each other in the heat of lust… and then the first time they had truly made love.

He remembered her expression when she realized for the first time he had betrayed her. He could only imagine how she must have looked when she had woken up the first time he had left her, sneaking away like a coward in the middle of the night.

There were so many first times he had experienced with Fiona at his side and now he was frightened he may have ruined it all. The first time he had truly hit her, all to protect their cover while trying to retrieve Barry Burkowski's client list, was possibly going to be the last time he would ever have a chance to lay a hand on her again.

 **A Brief History**

 **1995 – 1998**

It had been three years since his disastrous last assignment with Larry Sizemore. An assignment which had been cut short due to his own bad judgement in releasing the monster which dwelt deep inside his soul.

 _Vedeno…_ desperation had led to the brutal field interrogations of several village elders, men who had known nothing but had been made to suffer regardless. And then – and then because at the time he had seen no other way to neutralize their target, because he had believed there was no time to come up with another plan, or maybe in reality because he just wanted the mission to be over with regardless of the cost…

What happened next in that village joined the memories of all the other horrors he kept in locked away deep in his sub-conscious... The inquiry into their actions during those final six months working together in the depths of the Slovenian mountains had almost ended both their careers.

He had stood before the panel of congressmen and military intelligence officers and in the cold light of day tried to explain why he had thought it necessary to block the doors of a factory which was full of people before setting off the explosive charges he had positioned to cause maximum carnage, all to ensure the death of one man.

Oh, Larry had fought for him, explaining in great detail why the neutralization of the target had been so essential. But the senior field operative's condescending rantings had only made things worse as they had been ordered to sit down and were forced to listen to the damning evidence levelled against them. Hearing about the damage they had done to American interests in the international community and the American lives that their actions had put in danger… by the end of it all he had felt physically sick.

Because of that inquiry, he had considered himself very lucky to have just been censured and consigned to a desk job by at Langley for the foreseeable future and blessed to only have a note attached to his file stating that he and Agent Sizemore were never to be teamed up again.

He had spent a year stuck behind a desk in the Middle East department shuffling papers and sifting through field agents reports before those higher up the food chain finally deemed he had learned his lesson and sent him back into the field on a heavily supervised minor assignment. He had expected to be sent out to some North African hellhole or maybe to the mountains of Afghanistan, but instead he found himself back in Russia, St Petersburg to be precise.

After that first job, he was given a second in the same city but with a little more responsibility. This time he had been given the task of recruiting an asset: Samantha Keyes, an American of Russian heritage residing in St. Petersburg, a thief, a con woman and a safe cracker extraordinaire. Just the woman he needed on his side to break into the offices of Lukoil in order to make copies of the Russian/Chinese plans for a joint partnership in a gas pipeline between the two countries.

The spy and the thief had hit it off from the start and after the success of their first mission, they moved onto Moscow, Berlin, Zurich and Volvograd… sometimes stealing secrets, other times planting false evidence and on one occasion blackmailing a Swiss businessman into making some very bad choices to uphold the interests of the government of the United States.

Their working relationship wasn't the only thing that was blossoming. Because during their down time, Michael thought he had found the ideal woman in Ms. Keyes. She didn't care about the fact he wouldn't tell her anything about his life or the other jobs he did without her help. They had fun. She never pushed him or challenged him. In the whole year they were together, she only surprised him once and that was the night she suggested they made their partnership official and tie the knot.

At the time he had seen no reason to refuse. Everything about Samantha was easy and uncomplicated and he had seen no reason to believe that marriage would be any different. Besides she had said as much... _"You do your thing, I'll do mine. The only difference being we get to share all our ill-gotten gains."_

She had even supplied the diamonds for the ring she wanted, emptying a small silk pouch full of the tiny gems and one very large uncut diamond onto the sheet covering their bodies. _"I am leaving the design to you, but I would dearly love something inspired by the rings in the Romanov collection."_

 **The Irish Assignment**

 **Early 1998**

And then, just as the thought of domestic bliss was beginning to wear thin, the call came that he had been secretly waiting for.

" _Michael, good news, your probation is over, they want you back in the big leagues. How do you feel about a deep cover mission?"_

Hearing Dan Siegel's warm baritone had been like music to his ears.

It was unfortunate that his Russian asset's talents were not required, but he hadn't let that dissuade him from taking the job. So he had promised the woman he had thought he loved that he would contact her whenever he could, but also warned her she might have a long wait for that call.

Samantha had reacted exactly as he had expected her to. With a smile and a shrug of her slender shoulders, the Russian born thief had tossed back her long curly brunette locks and suggested that they spend whatever time they had left in bed making memories for him to take with him.

To pass the time on the four hour flight between St. Petersburg to London Heathrow Airport, he had read through the documents which had been forwarded to him by his handler back in DC. At the time, he had thought the mission seemed straight forward: get a bunch of terrorists to trust him and then, when the time was right, pull the rug out from under them. A job he could do in his sleep…

 _Unfortunately the United Kingdom intelligence services hadn't felt the same._

First of all, the British insisted he spent two months working with their own spies and SAS operatives who had recently returned from Belfast to bring him up to speed on the Irish situation.

He had arrived at the base full of confidence. After all, he was an experienced operative who had run missions in some of the hottest spots on three continents, none of which had required the level of preparation the British were determined to put him through.

It didn't take his instructors long to show him how wrong he had been.

The first week had been frustrating in the extreme. They told him his freshly acquired Irish accent was terrible. _"Ya sound like a character off the Lucky Charms advert, ya muppet."_

He neither looked the part nor moved correctly… or at least not to the satisfaction of the SAS Sergeant in charge of his training.

" _These people will shoot you dead just for looking at them the wrong way, mate. So drop the fucking attitude and I swear the next time you make eye contact when we run the pub scenario, I'll knock your fucking block off."_

The roads were narrow and rarely followed straight lines. The traffic was either moving too fast or nearly stationary. There were buses, taxi, cars, vans, trucks or rather lorries, motorcycles and pushbikes all vying for space and all traveling on for what most of Europe, the old Soviet Union, and the US considered the wrong side of the road.

" _Jesus fecking Christ, look right, look left, look right again! Tis like teaching me bleeding kids the green cross code all over again."_

He had fumbled with the currency: Northern Irish pound notes, British pound notes and then the Southern Irish punts. _It was no wonder there was a thriving counterfeiting and money laundering industry on the Island._

But in the end his perseverance paid off and as the second month of preparation drew to an end, his instructors on all things Irish had deemed him ready to enter the lion's den, as long as he took things slow and allow himself plenty of time to assimilate himself into the community.

The information they wanted him to gather was important to the US and the UK, both governments wanting to know the identities of the men providing the money which helped to supply the IRA with weapons and gave their political wing, Sinn Fien, the funds to operate.

The first step, he was informed, was to get close to a minor member of the IRA, a woman called Fiona Glenanne, who was going to be his way in. If he could catch her attention, then through her he was to gain access to her brothers and the inner circle of the Belfast charter.

But he had one last lesson to learn before he took that first step. On the journey from the SAS training facilities in the far southwest of England to the Ferry port of Holyhead in the furthest reaches of North Wales, he was taken on one last detour. He had no idea where he was taken that day, as he had been ordered to wear a blindfold for the whole journey. Sergeant Andy Bishop had explained to him that it was a precaution to protect the man he was going to meet.

It was an IRA informer who had escaped Belfast just ahead of an IRA snatch squad intent on torturing him before an execution and leaving his body in an unmarked grave. A small wiry, incredibly nervous individual had been waiting to meet the American spy in a top secret facility, a man who had spent the last five years on the run with a half million pound bounty on his head and the knowledge that the men hunting him would never give up the chase until he was dead and in the ground.

He came away from the meeting quiet and subdued, the informer having explained to him in graphic detail the risks he faced in such a closed community and the unpleasant end he would meet if he was even suspected of being other than who he was claiming to be. He got the message: _don't do anything to stand out, be average and above all else, take things slow._

At first he stayed near the docks, the people living in the area were well used to foreigners passing through. If he mixed up the money, or nearly got hit stepping out into the road because he had looked the wrong way, it went without comment. Finally, he was told by his handler a bedsit which had become available over a Fish and Chip shop, close to a pub frequently used by Miss Fiona Glenanne.

Under the watchful gaze of a gang of teenagers, he moved in a few days later with his few possessions stuffed into one medium sized ruck sack. The bedsit consisted of two rooms, one of which was a small shower room and toilet and the other making up both his kitchen, which was nothing more than a work top with an electric two ring hot plate, an ageing microwave and a cracked and stained enamel sink, and a living space which provided just enough room for an old sofa bed.

That evening he made his first foray into what his SAS advisers had described as bandit country. He bought a steak pie and chip supper from the shop below and ate it straight out of the paper it had been wrapped in as he wandered down to a nearby park to sit on a bench to take stock of the locals and to dispose of the leftovers of his meal to the ducks and geese inhabiting the decorative pond in the center of the municipal park.

After dark and a wash and a shave, he changed into a clean pair of jeans and a brush cotton shirt before slipping into a well-worn black leather jacket and heading out of the door to make his way across the street to the pub, which he had been assured was where he was most likely to make contact with his target.

Sitting on a high wooden stool at the bar, he spent the night nursing a pint of Guinness and chatting with the bar man when he wasn't busy serving customers. He learned that they didn't get many strangers coming inside and he explained he had just moved in across the road, hinting that he was a little down on his luck. When a group of men came round shaking a bucket asking for _"Money for the Boys,"_ he dropped in a five pound note into the container and wished them a goodnight and good luck.

By closing time, he left feeling that, though he had only spoken to the bartender, he had made a good start on building his cover as one of the many unemployed young men who made a living out of petty crime.

 **First Impressions**

Over the coming weeks, Michael McBride, the Kilkenny born Irishman, settled into the Belfast community, spending his days mostly between the pub and the local betting shop, earning his keep through gambling and committing the occasional crime. But in all that time he failed to even catch a glimpse of the elusive Miss Glenanne.

He was becoming bored of the whole thing and, while his MI6 handler based in the government offices in Stormont counselled patience, a little voice inside his head, which sounded a lot like Larry Sizemore, urged him to stop playing the boy scout and get out there and shake things up. He fought down the inclination to go out and commit a little mayhem. He was beginning to like these people and besides the last time he had listened to Larry, half a Slovenian village had been blown up while the other part had gone up in flames.

Finally though, his patience was rewarded, when late one night towards the end of that first month, four young women breezed into the pub, all loud voices and reeking of confidence which came from being completely at home in the most dangerous neighborhood in the whole of the British Isle.

He had watched with interest as the bar owner left his usual place at a table in the corner of the dimly lit room to rush across to be the first to greet the quartet as if they were visiting royalty.

And there, the center of attention, was the woman he had been waiting to meet, her long reddish brown hair hanging in soft ringlets about her face, large dangling ear rings not quite reaching her shoulders and wearing a dress which barely covered her behind.

She was unmistakably dressed for a night out on the town, her style similar to the others in her group. All four were wearing short slinky dresses made of very flimsy looking material and high heeled strappy shoes.

He watched the excitement the quartet of women caused from his place at the bar, sipping his pint of black while he surreptitiously took in every detail of the woman he had been sent to charm and, once he had her confidence, use to gain access to her older brothers and their IRA contacts.

He noted how her sharp angular features softened when she laughed, how her eyes widened and sparkled as she flirted outrageously with the bar owner and his cronies. He also noticed the way her silver and black shift dress clung to her slender body and the line of her calf muscles as she balanced on her silver high heeled shoes.

" _You should really watch yourself, mate. Don't be fooled by her party girl appearance. Fiona Glenanne is a certifiable head case who blows up banks for fun. She has a liking for guns, explosives, knives... Basically anything that can kill. The last bloke who pissed her off – – they're still finding bits of him all over Belfast."_

That had been the last piece of advice he received before SM Andy Bishop waved him off at Holyhead ferry port.

An hour after their arrival the quartet were on their way out of the door and shortly afterwards Michael McBride finished his stout, yawned and wished his favorite barman goodnight before setting off after them. He trailed the four drunken women as they made their way on foot from the pub to a dingy looking nightclub, its entrance hidden away down a dimly lit alley way between an estate agency and a hardware store.

He scowled when saw the doormen make a gap and wave them past the line to get inside and after quickly checking his wallet to make sure he had the cash to pay the entry fee and buy a couple of drinks, he joined the rest of the mere mortals to waited his turn to get inside.

He passed through the metal detector and remained passive when he was pulled aside for a pat down, thanking his lucky stars he had left his gun back in his bedsit, hidden away in a slick he had made in the floorboards, and finally he was into the dark smoky club, filled with heaving bodies moving to the loud pounding beat of dance music. Fighting his way through the crowd to the bar he paid for a beer in a plastic pint cup and then started circling the place looking for his target.

Finally standing on the balcony looking down on the dance floor below, he spotted her. It wasn't until much later on he realized this was the precise moment he fell for Fiona Glenanne. Neither the photographs or the intelligence reports had prepared him for what he saw as he watched the petite bank robbing, gun running terrorist on that crowded dance floor.

He was used to watching women use their bodies to attract the attention of a man or in some cases another woman. Some did it just to get a drink or maybe a bit of company for the night, others did it just to prove they could and a very few did it for the flag. Samantha had done that for him in order for him to gain access to the financial records of a man suspected of being involved selling military secrets. _In truth, she had done same herself on other jobs as well before they had ever met._

But thanks to a womanizing Swiss banker's preference for leggy brunettes, after one drunken night out, a seedy hotel room, a supply of Rohypnol and some extremely risqué photographs, which would guarantee the banker's wife a large divorce settlement if they ever came to light, Michael had gotten all the intel he needed to plug the hole in US military security thanks to Samantha.

Through the fog and haze caused by the mixture of the smoke from the dry ice machine and the flashing strobe lighting which flickered to the pulsing beat of the music, he watched Fiona and found himself losing his objectivity. Because while every other woman on the floor was to his expert eyes dancing to make an impression, the petite redhead with her eyes half closed danced as if there was nobody else in the room. _Lost in music was a phrase meant for this woman._ He finished his luke warm lager in one swallow and crushed the plastic cup in his hand before dropping it on the floor.

He couldn't take his eyes off her as her hair flowed wildly about her face and neck, her earrings spinning and turning the gold glinting and flashing under the rapidly flashing lights, drawing his attention to her lovely very kissable slender neck. He noticed the bangles on her wrists and for a moment he stared at the graceful movements of her arms and imagined what they might feel like wrapped round his body, and those hands, instead of caressing the air what they might do caressing him. He followed the line of her dress, a dress which clung to her in all the right places before his gaze moved upwards to her parted lips as she sang along with words of the song filling the room.

He hadn't realized how long he had been staring until the music changed from the thumping beat of a dance track to the soft, languid melody suitable for slow dances. Straightening up, he pushed himself away from the balcony edge and rushed towards the staircase which would take him down to the dance floor. _What was more natural than a man asking a woman for a dance?_ He just had to get there before some other man took her hand and led her back on to the dance floor.

He held his breath when he realized he was too late as a tall heavily built lout pulled her into a slobbering embrace. Then a second later he let out that breath when said lout fell back as the four inch heel of her right shoe came down on her would-be suitor's foot.

With no time to waste, Michael approached boldly, coming to a stop before her as she sipped calmly on a drink at the high table beside her. He waited until her eyes returned to his face after she finished checking him out.

"Would ya care ta dance?"

He didn't actually see where the gun came from but in less time than it took to blink, the spy felt the prod of the muzzle of a snub nose revolver digging into his belly. He looked down at the gun and then into her cool unfriendly eyes, the words of his SAS adviser coming to mind.

" _Her last two boyfriends were dark haired with athletic builds, so we think she has a type. Both were dangerous men in their own rights, one an international arms dealer the other an out and out hooligan. You won't get anywhere by playing nice with this girl."_

"I take it thot means yes." He smiled at her, challenging the insane woman to shoot him in the middle of the crowded club.

She cocked her head to the side and returned his smile, the gun disappearing into the small bag which was laying open on the table. "Ya have a lotta nerve – ?"

"Michael, Michael McBride," he finished the introduction as he helped her down from the stool she had been sitting on. "An' ya are?"

"Fiona… Pleased ta meet ya, Michael."

Out on the floor, he rested his hands on her hips, while hers lay lightly upon his shoulders as they moved slowly in time with the music. At the end of two dances, she took his hand to lead him off the floor.

"Thank ya, Michael…" Reaching up, her lips brushed against his cheek. "But I have a two song limit wit' men I don't know an' me friends are waitin' fer me."

And then she was gone, swept up in the milling crowd.

Swallowing thickly, he took off for the doors in the hope he would be able see where she went next.

After all the alcohol he had witnessed her consume, he had expected her next move to be to take a taxi home. Still, if he could overhear her giving directions to the driver, it would be something he could pass on to his handler.

He made it into the foyer just in time to catch sight of the back of the woman he was trailing as she disappeared to into the women's restroom along with one of the women who had accompanied her to the club. Unable to follow any further, he headed outside and positioned himself near the already crowded taxi rank. Glancing up at the dark sky and feeling the light patter of rain hitting his face, the spy zipped up his jacket and hoped the two women weren't going to be too long.

 **First Contact**

Inside the club, Fiona Glenanne's blue-green eyes flashed dangerously as she followed her best friend Eileen O'Connell into the ladies toilets. They slammed through the door and joined the long queue of women waiting to use one of the ten cubicles.

"I'm not going with ya. Ya can feck right off if ya think am gonna shag Jamesy Cooke jus' so ya can cop off with his stupid asshole of a brother," Fiona shouted over the top of the thumping bass from the music outside as she knocked back the last of her Southern Comfort lemonade and lime before tossing the empty cup into a nearby bin.

"Aw, Fi, he ain't thot bad. Ya cannae deny he has a great body. Could ya not close yar eyes? Jus' fer me? It's been three looong weeks now since Reggie left me. C'mon, girl, be a friend," Eileen wheedled.

Three weeks earlier, Ms. O'Connell's steady boyfriend Reggie had thrown her out of their rented house because he had discovered that while he had been hard at work on the nightshift, she had had a string of one night stands.

"I told ya, Am nae going home with Jamesy jus' so you can get yar leg over with his big brother. I don't care how desperate you are or how big his biceps are. I have standards," Fiona snapped. They moved forward in the line. _If there_ _was one thing about her friend that Fiona_ _truly_ _disliked, it was her far too free and easy attitude as far as men were concerned_.

"Ya're too picky, Fi. That's why yar as good as on the shelf," Eileen replied nastily, risking a bloody nose when her whining failed to get the response she had been hoping for.

"Shut yer face, Ellie." _It was true that her list of former beaus was pitifully short, but at least when she did choose to be with a man,_ _it was on her terms._

A stall had become empty and the two young women entered together. When they came out, they were no further along in their discussion. Eileen refused to give up on unloading her chosen man for the night's brother on her friend and Fiona was steadfastly refusing to be used. After washing their hands, they headed back to the club's foyer, Eileen instantly flinging herself into the arms of Tony Cooke, planting a long slobbering kiss on his lips.

Jamesy Cooke, seeing the attention his sibling was getting, grabbed hold of Fiona, his tongue forcing its way down her throat while his hands made their way up and under her dress. Almost gagging, Fiona fought him off. Grabbing a hold of the bulge in the front of his jeans in one hand, she squeezed tightly until he yelped and fell back, doubled over in pain.

"Yer fucking bitch!" He righted himself and brought his hand up to strike her, only stopping as he saw two of the club's bouncers moving forward.

"Am going," Fiona ground the words out from behind clenched teeth, but she needn't have bothered because Eileen was too busy with Tony to pay her any attention.

Cursing under her breath, the redhead dug into her purse for her cloakroom ticket. Collecting her jacket she walked outside, the cool damp air hitting her like a blow and causing her to stagger a little. Pausing, she stared at the line of people waiting for transport to their homes.

Biting down on her bottom lip, she decided she had no wish to still be standing around when Eileen and the Cooke brothers came outside. She was totally at ease with the idea of kneecapping both men, but she'd already had one warning this week from Sean about her overreacting to any perceived slight. _Blowing up a car belonging to a thieving gun smuggler who had tried to short change her was not in her opinion an overreaction._

The dark haired spy standing in the shadows watched as his target stepped out of the club and with a face like thunder walked purposefully away from the line for a taxi cab. He had obviously missed something, but it didn't matter. If he could trail her and remain unseen, he might actually get a look at where the elusive Ms. Glenanne was calling home. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he set off in pursuit of the tiny auburn haired terrorist.

Staying far enough back so he hopefully wouldn't be noticed, yet close enough not to lose sight of her completely, Michael found himself becoming almost hypnotized by the sway of the Fiona's narrow hips and the way the hem of her dress was riding higher and higher up her shapely legs.

They had been walking for just over ten minutes when all of a sudden the petite redhead was almost jerked off her feet and dragged down the slope of an underground car park.

"Ya think ya can get away with treating me like thot, ya uptight bitch!"

The silver compact bag which the young woman had been carrying flew out onto the edge of the road as the sounds of a scuffle reached the spy's ear.

"Fuck!" Michael sprinted forward, his speed increasing as a muffled scream was followed by the unmistakable sound of a fist hitting flesh echoed out of the dark.

"Just cuz yer Sean Glenanne's sister ya think thot gives ya tha right? Whore!"

Stepping into the dark, the spy could just make out the sight of his target and her attacker as the larger man wrestled the smaller woman to the hard concrete floor. Even as he closed the distance, he could see and could not help but admire the fight the petite paramilitary was putting up as her teeth latched onto the side of her would be rapist's face.

"Whatcha doin?" Michael slurred his words as if thick with drink.

"Feck off, man. This bitch is mine," Jamesy shouted back, putting his hand over Fiona's mouth stopping her calling out.

"Hey, hey, I don't wanta fight…" He staggered forward a few more steps, keeping his arms out stretched. "I jus' heard a commotion, thot wa' all... Whot are ya doin'?"

He stared down into a pair of tear-filled eyes rimmed with badly smeared make-up and could see her mouth trying to scream out a warning even with the large masculine hand pressed tightly over it.

" _You can't do that, ya mad fucker!"_ the British serviceman who was in charge of unarmed combat had shouted, rubbing at the spot where the toe of a boot at the end of a well-executed roundhouse kick had just contacted the side of his jaw. _"How many times do you have to be bloody told? No... Fancy... Moves... One sniff that you ain't the Culchie boy you're pretending to be and you'll end up at the wrong end of a noose."_

"No fancy moves," he whispered under his breath and stepped forward with a kick which would have gotten him a spot on any of the multitude of amateur football teams that played up and down the country every weekend, but was nothing like a spy with two black belts would use to win a fight.

"Get off har!"

"Whot tha feck?!" The younger Cooke brother rolled away, his head still ringing from the blow but he was far from out of the fight.

Rolling onto her front, Fiona pushed herself onto her knees and then up to her feet. Staggering on her high heels, she used one hand to help balance her on one of the car parks concrete pillars while she watched the fight taking place before her.

Even by her high standards, it was brutal. While neither man had any particular skill, punches, kicks, bear hugs and head butts were all being used with maximum force. When Jamesy finally went down to what she counted to be the fourth heavy blow to the side of his head, Fiona pushed herself away from the pillar and reluctantly pulled her rescuer away from where he was landing kick after kick into the fallen man's side.

"Enough now, he's learnt his lesson, come away now," she urged as she tugged on his sleeve, dragging him back out on to the street. "Don't take this wrong. I'd love nothing more than ta kick thot swine's thick head all tha way inta tha sea, but I wa' seen arguing with him earlier, so it wouldn't look good fer me if he turns up dead."

He allowed her to lead him back onto the main road, where under a street light she insisted on checking him over for injuries. He stood passively as she poked and prodded at his ribs and the bridge of his nose where he'd taken several blows; however, he couldn't help but flinch when she dabbed roughly at his split lip.

"Jaysus, where'd ya get yar medical degree?"

His complaint earned him a dig in his already sore abdominal muscles.

"Quit yar whining, ya big baby," she replied and then narrowed her eyes, staring back at him intently. "I know ya, don't I?... Mi-cah-ael McBride," she over pronounced his first name. "My dance partner from the Black Sand and didn't I see ya earlier in tha Cockleshell?" she continued, naming the pub where he had been drinking for the last month. "Whot are ya doin' in this part o' town? Were ya following me, Mister McBride?"

"In a manner o' speakin', I saw ya walk off alone an' thought-" His words trailed off as they both watched the shadowy figure who was slinking away, hunched over and limping.

"Ya thought ya would make sure I got home safe. Thot was very sweet o' ya Michael but unnecessary. I am perfectly capable o' looking after me self." The look of suspicion fell away and one hand stroked down the front of his shirt.

But before he had a chance to make the most of the moment, she turned away from him, her eyes scanning the pavement. "Oh shite, thot was a new bag."

The slender redhead went back the way they had just came to retrieve the small handbag from the gutter, her features twisting into a scowl as she tried to clean off the dirt and diesel stains covering the once shimmering cloth.

Realizing a lost cause when she spotted one, Fiona gave up on saving her latest accessory and turned her attention back to the man patiently waiting for her. Michael McBride was a name she had heard several times over the last few weeks, a newcomer to the neighborhood. Her brother's crew had checked him out and he had come back as harmless and as such forgotten about.

 _Until now…_

"I think ya're gonna have ta accept tis a lost cause luv." He followed her to the edge of the pavement, his hand closing about her arm partially to help keep her upright as she had begun to sway.

"Ya're right," she sighed and then in an instant brightened up, her eyes narrowing as she stared off in the direction of the man who had attacked her had taken off. "Maybe we should kill him now after all. It'll save me doing tha job in a coupla months time… or sooner if me brothers find out whot happened."

"Whoa!" He tightened his hold on her arm as she went to go in search of her attacker. "Ya want ta kill him over a bag?"

"It cost me an arm an' a leg, Michael, and I have nothin' else thot goes with this dress," she pouted.

The petite paramilitary was definitely crazy, but the Irishwoman also suddenly seemed very sweet and vulnerable as she looked up at him all doe-eyed with dishevelled hair which had looked so stylish earlier in the evening now hanging limp and straggly about her face.

"Ya can buy another, Am sure," he pointed out in a soothing tone before letting go of her arm just long enough to slip out of his jacket and drape it over her shoulders. "I think we should get ya home... D'ya live far?"

The pout was replaced instantly by a sultry smile. "My, such a gentleman, where have ya been hiding yarself?" One arm snaked around his waist, she snuggled into his side. "Come along, I'll show ya tha way."

They walked along, leaning into each other, her arm around his waist, his arm draped over her shoulders. She snuggled in closer when she felt him taking in the scent of her hair.

And all the while Michael Westen the spy smiled up at the cloud filled sky. _This was going better than he could have hoped for. He had made contact and was about to discover where the elusive Fiona Glenanne was calling home._

It wasn't long before she led them off the main road and onto a maze of side streets, each one lined with very similar two-storey terrace houses whose front doors opened straight onto the pavement.

The only warning he got of what was going to come next was a slight tensing in her arms before his back was slammed into one of those matching doors.

"Wa're here," her breathy announcement at odds with the violence of her actions as her arms wrapped about his neck, her slender hands forming claws which scraped across his skull while her lips ravished his throat.

 _They were all right… This woman was definitely a handful, almost a force of nature._

He returned the kiss, his hands now in her hair, his fingers tangling in her long auburn locks, his lips pressing hard against hers as their tongues fought a duel in his mouth and then in hers as they battled for dominance.

Her body writhed against his, her hands no longer torturing his skull. Instead she was pulling and tugging roughly at his shirt in an attempt to get to the skin underneath. He could see this night ending with them not making it as far as her bedroom, but instead lying naked on the floor of her living room with her lithe body spread out underneath him.

Several shirt buttons flew off onto the ground and the cold night air hit his torso as the wild woman pinning him to the door, scraping her nails down over his bruised ribs and causing him to gasp, surrender the battle for a moment as pain mixed with pleasure when she kissed and licked over where her nails had gone.

 _This woman was used to getting what she wanted. She was a Glenanne… her brothers ruled the streets of West Belfast. She was also highly unstable and had a reputation of her own almost as bloody as that of her siblings._

"No! Not now." The words were torn from his throat. _He needed to be more than a one night stand to this woman... He needed her to chase him, she had to want him._ He took hold of her wrists and pushed her away. "Not nar, luv."

"You don't like me?" Fiona was hurt. _Here she was offering herself to him and he was rejecting her._

"Oh, god no, please…" He pulled her close again, kissing her on the forehead. "It's just-"

He struggled for the right words. He shut his eyes, his hands now running up and down her arms as he searched for the words which would soothed her feelings. "Fiona, ya're a very beautiful woman, but ya have also hadda skin full when we, ya know... I want – I want you ta remember it."

He put her at arms distance again so he could look her in the eyes. "You were jus' attacked, luv. I don't think this is the right time, I'd be takin' advantage o' ya an' thot's not what I want... Will ya meet me tomorrow at tha pub at around eight? We can go on a proper date an' let's see where things go from there. Whot d'ya say?"

Fiona looked him over, biting her bottom lip. _It was obvious she wasn't used to being turned down._ But then the pensive look fell away and she reached out to take hold of the waistband of his jeans and pulled him close up against her.

The smile gracing her lips matched the predatory look in her eyes as she slowly brought her left knee up between his legs, rubbing her thigh against his balls. Her lips parted as she felt the front of his jeans bulge and tighten.

"Fine," the tiny terrorist agreed, letting her leg drop. "Eight o' clock, but not at the pub... I er, I have sommit ta do in town that I can't put off. Let's say underneath the Albert Memorial Clock. Is that alright with you?" She trailed a hand over his face as she unlocked her door.

"That will be grand, Fiona." He swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the effect this wild Irishwoman was having on his body.

"Good, until tomorrow night then... Sweet dreams, Mr. McBride." She almost purred as she turned her back and then shut the door gently behind her.

For several seconds, the spy stood staring at the dark brown door as he resisted the urge to smash down the barrier separating them and take the petite auburn haired firecracker there and then.

Shaking off the feelings of lust filling his head, Michael tucked in his ruined shirt and it was only then he realized she still had his jacket.

"Great, just great," he muttered and hunching his shoulders against the cold and rain, he turned away and began the long walk home... All in all the night had been a success. He just had to hope that getting to know Fiona Glenanne didn't kill him.

 _When you want to turn someone into an asset, get them to betray the cause they love, you have to get to know them. You need to know their frustrations, you need to know how they spend their time and money and you need to know their hopes and dreams... But first you need to get them to trust you._

The dark haired spy thought about those words as he stood in the middle of his tiny bedsit stripping off his soaking wet clothes.

 _How do you get a wild Irishwoman who shrugs off an attempted to rape and considers violence as foreplay to trust you?_ That was the big question and one he had yet to come up with a satisfactory answer for.

Holding up his ruined shirt, he frowned and tossed the buttonless garment in the trashcan beside the kitchen sink. He could have repaired the damaged item. Stitching on a few buttons was well within the skill set of Michael Westen, but not something Michael McBride would even think of attempting.

With his clothes off, he stepped into the bathroom and turned on the flow of water in the cramped shower cubicle and while waiting for the aged boiler to heat the water, he took the time to survey the damage done during the fight.

Tilting his head to the left and then to the right, the spy touched a finger to his split and swollen lip and then gingerly probed at the bruise forming on his left cheek. He could have finished off the thug and would be rapist with a few well executed moves but instead he'd had to drag out the fight and as a result, his body was now a checkerboard of bruising and minor scrapes: a blackened left eye, a split lip and a slight swelling to the left side of his jaw. While a little painful these were by no means serious. He had taken harder beatings off his dear old dad.

Stepping into the shower cubicle, he let the water rush over his head before reaching for the body wash hanging on the rail, taking a big handful he began to clean himself off as he reviewed the mission so far and planned his strategy for the future.

 _He had a date with one of the most dangerous women in Ireland. He needed to prepare for and the thought of that made him smile._

If he had planned it, their first meeting couldn't have gone any better. He supposed he should feel some gratitude to his target's attacker. It had made a great opening for him to play the white knight riding to her rescue. Turning down the offer of a night of passion had been hard, it was nearly three months now since he had had any action, but it had been worth it in the end.

Michael hadn't considered his plan to sleep with his asset in order to gain her trust as cheating on his fiancée. After all, he knew for a fact Samantha wasn't above using her body to do the same thing when she wanted to discover the position of a safe or learn more about a mark's life before she used that knowledge to rob them later on. It was one of the many things that made them such a great team. He didn't have to feel any guilt about who he was or what he did when he was around her and likewise she neither wanted or expected him to question what she got up to when he wasn't around.

He barred his teeth in a smile as one of his soaped-up hands made circles down his chest, over his abs and closed around his semi erect length while in his mind he pictured that last glorious morning in a five star St. Petersburg hotel room before he left for London.

 _Samantha's lipstick smeared lips brushing lightly over him, the soft warmth of her breath tickling his skin and the sensation of her tongue licking him from his balls to tip and back again…. the feel of her soft chocolate-colored curls crushed and tangled in his fists as he held her hair away from her face as he watched her mouth open and engulf him…. The waves of pleasure flowing over him, making him weak at the knees…_

Sighing, the spy let his shoulders rest against the tiles of cubicle and closed his eyes as the memory took him over completely. He remembered the touch of her long supple fingers on his hips, stroking down his thighs and back up again. His breathing began to deepen as his hand gripped tighter and moved faster. He could feel himself pressing on the back of her throat, her fingernails digging into the flesh of his buttocks, at the same time his hands pulling on her hair, urging her on.

 _How at this intimate moment they would stare into each other's eyes just before his own vision blacked out. How he would gaze into her blue-green orbs, her long auburn locks tangled in his fingers as he rode the wave of pleasure…_

Panting heavily, Michael slumped back, his legs shaking as he watched the water cascading down from above wash away the evidence of what he had just done. Straightening up, he turned off the flow of water and reached out for a towel.

 _Why had he mixed up Samantha with Fiona Glenanne?_

He looked into the small mirror above the sink and frowned. _Glenanne was certainly a beautiful woman, but nothing at all like Sam… for a start the brunette thief wasn't insane. Mixing up two women was dangerous enough for a civilian, but for a spy it could be enough to get him killed, especially when one of them was known to settle her scores with a well-placed block of C4._

Wrapping the towel in his hand about his waist, Michael took a smaller one of the hook on the bathroom door and gently rubbed it across his tender head. _Maybe it was the fight, maybe he had taken one too many blows to his skull…._ Dropping the towel into the sink, he combed his fingers through his still damp dark hair and tried to dismiss his slip as nothing more than a momentary lapse, albeit a potentially dangerous one which he would have to guard more carefully against.

It might have been the first time he'd thought of Fiona Glenanne as something more than an asset, but despite his determination to do otherwise, it certainly would not be the last.


	2. Chapter 2

**:**

 **THE IRISH ASSIGNMENT**

 **Part Two**

 **ooOoo**

 **The End & The Beginning**

 **2009**

The sound of an unknown car pulling up outside the loft drifted up through the open doors at the far end of the building, causing the dark haired spy to briefly look up and break his reverie. Then, as he recognized the familiar tap of high heels on the steel staircase, he turned his attention back to the photograph in his hand: a surveillance shot of himself and Fiona standing on a Belfast street after an evening at the theater taken by whichever MI5 or CIA drone had had the job of following him that day.

He remembered how her lips had tasted and how the cool night air had felt against his skin on that May evening, but was unable to recall the name of the play... _Something about an Irish poet and a tragic love affair…?_ _Not his thing, but Fiona had enjoyed it... A lot._

"Michael?"

He was so wrapped up in the memory of that particular moment, he barely registered his girlfriend, _or was it ex-girlfriend again_ , slipping through the door.

"I'm upstairs, Fi," he called down to her while at the same time discarding the picture of a night out in Belfast for one of a close up of Fiona sitting at a table outside Carlito's sipping on a Bloody Mary through a straw. "What's that you're driving? It didn't sound like your car outside."

"It's a rental. I sold my car."

 _Sold her car? The car he had given her in way of an apology for not being the man she deserved._ "Really…? Your car didn't exactly have a pink slip."

"The buyer didn't mind, not at that price."

She had his full attention now as he realized exactly how serious she was about leaving. "This, er, this moving out of town thing… if you're trying to make a point…"

"I'm not trying to make a point, Michael. I'm trying to make a change. I'm going home." He watched as she moved over to sit on the edge of his bed, the filmy pale shift dress she was wearing turning very nearly see through as sunlight shone across the room. "I told my mother to expect me."

"We have one fight and you decide to go back to Ireland?" _He had thought when she had said she was leaving Miami she had meant a move to Boca Raton, or maybe Fort Lauderdale, but not gone for good._

"This isn't about one fight, Michael." Fiona was back on her feet, crossing over to the work bench. "If you didn't see this coming, you weren't paying attention. You're too worried about your own future for there to be one for us."

He closed his eyes, just for a split second. _This was the same old argument they had been having for the last fifteen years: his job, what he did and why he did it._ She had never approved of any of it and had only grudgingly admitted he occasionally did some good. Michael opened his eyes and erupted in a burst of frustrated anger of his own.

"I'm not doing this for me! Fiona, I'm out in the cold and the longer I stay there, the more I endanger everyone in my life."

"Don't you pretend this is about us!" She punctuated her words by slamming shut the cover of the manual she had been idly flicking through, her Celtic temper rising in an instant. "It's about YOU!" Then the fury faded as quickly as it had come. "Which is fine... It's... It's just time I did what I need to do too." A deep sadness filling her voice as she continued, "Michael?"

"Yeah?

"Have you seen my H & K USP compact? The one with the silver slide…? I need to finish packing and I think I left it here."

"Yeah, I er…" His eyes drifted to where the gun lay beside the photographs, his hand closing about the chequered grip. "I think I saw it around here somewhere. I'll find it and bring it to you, okay? You're not leaving today are you?" _Please don't say you are… we… I can make this work._

"No," she spoke so softly he barely heard her response and then before he could get up the nerve to say what he really wanted to, she was gone.

Michael winced as he heard the roar of her rental's engine protesting the heavy foot pressing down on its gas pedal as Fiona Glenanne took off.

Picking up the gun he turned it over, running his hand over the cold steel as his mind was once again drifting back to those early days in Belfast, to those days when she had favored the little snub nosed Smith and Wesson .38 special which she had pushed into his belly. He had been damn lucky in those early days that she hadn't left him gut shot on the dance floor of a dingy little Belfast club or blown his hand off half an hour before they had connected for the first time on the hood of a stolen car.

Getting to his feet, the hopefully soon to be reinstated spy tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants. It was nearly time for his meeting with Diego Garcia. He was half way down the steps when he turned back to return the photographs to the drawer on his desk, his eyes settling on a strip of four pictures taken in a photograph booth at a Belfast fairground...

 _God, they were young back then, young and reckless. He had just broken free from the grip of Larry Sizemore, and she… well, she had been so full of fire you felt the heat by just being in her presence._

Ten minutes later sitting in traffic, his mind was still on those four faded and crinkled black and white photographs, her long hair tied back in a ponytail brushing against his cheek, her firm backside pressed into his lap and her carefree laughter in his ear...

And he wondered why he could remember that first time he had heard her squeal with an almost childlike delight, but damned if he could remember the last time he had seen her genuinely happy...

 _Maybe once he was back in the CIA's good graces, they could get back to what they had had before._

 **()()()()()**

 _As cover ID's go, I prefer rich businessman, or international playboy to petty criminal. But if the situation calls for it, you do what you have to do._

It was seven PM and he was still debating about where to take his date for the evening. A sleepless night and a whole day spent wandering about the city searching for inspiration had failed to help him reach a decision and it was frustrating. He had never had this much trouble reading a potential asset before. _Was he losing his touch? Had a year behind a desk followed by six months working with such an accommodating asset as Samantha Keyes dulled his skills?_

The dark haired man looked down at his meager selection of clothing which he laid out on his bed: jeans, shirts, T shirts and woolen sweaters had been all his SAS instructor had deemed he would need to fit in with the local community.

Michael knew from her dossier that she had dated an international arms dealer, a wealthy man with powerful contacts, so powerful in fact that all mention of his name or any identifying information had been blacked out in her file, including the reason for the split.

 _It had to have been something big though because she had gone from traveling the world selling latest in deadly weaponry to whipping up homemade explosives in a derelict warehouse for a Real IRA bomber who didn't even warrant a MI5 file of his own._

Pursing his lips, the spy frowned. Fiona Glenanne had gone from riches and power to dark and deadly and neither man had managed to hold onto her. _She was obviously looking for someone different._ He thought again about the woman he had watched dancing as if she was the only one in the room and slowly a smile spread across his face.

He walked swiftly across to the kitchen area and picked up his copy of the local newspaper, turning the pages until he found what he was looking for. As his eyes eagerly scanned the advertisement, his confidence grew.

 _Where do you take a psychotic bomber with side lines in bank robbery, and gun running…?_

 _You take her somewhere totally unexpected and totally suited to her crazy assed character._

He had arrived at the meeting spot below the Albert Memorial Clock fifteen minutes before eight PM, his eyes scanning the faces in the crowd of tourists and locals passing by hoping to catch sight of his future asset.

It had been at the precise moment when a group of teenagers brushed by that she had sneaked up behind him, making him flinch and spin around when her hand landed lightly on his shoulder.

Her long auburn hair had been hidden under a wig of long black hair worn in a ponytail hanging half way down her back, her slender figure concealed by a knee length beige trench coat and her legs once again shown off to their best advantage by killer heels.

"You're tryin' a different style?" he had asked, his fingers capturing a few strands of her fake locks.

"I told ya I have a job to do later." She gently palmed his left cheek, her eyes narrowing with concern as she studied the evidence of the previous evenings fight before, in an obvious effort to change the subject, she added. "That is one nasty looking black eye ya have there. Anyone would think you had a run in with a truck rather than a cowardly lout."

"Ah, he got in a few lucky shots, that was all." He'd flashed his teeth in a cocky smile and was rewarded by a soft kiss to the side of his mouth.

"So where are ya takin' me, Mister McBride?" she asked.

He remembered the rush of excitement, carefully masked, in anticipation of her response to his chosen evening entertainment. _If he had gotten it wrong, the whole mission would be at risk..._ "Ah, um… There's a funfair, an' I er, thought we'd start there and see where we end up."

"A funfair…?" She had raised one eyebrow in surprise and just for a split second he had thought he had gotten it wrong and his mind set to work on a change of venue to get them back on track when she relaxed. "That isn't what I was expecting. Ya're a man with a sense o' humor I can tell."

"Ya would prefer ta go to some fancy restaurant? Or ta go dancin'? AM afraid I don't have the funds at the moment for much more than sommit from Gantry's burger van over there." He indicated said mobile food bar with a tilt of his chin.

"That's not what I meant…" She sighed heavily, as a look of melancholy fleetingly passed over her expression before she brightened. "I think a visit to a funfair is just what I need right now."

Linking her arm through his, they strolled away from the square, heading towards the River Lagan and a large stretch of ground where a traveling fair had set up two days earlier.

When he had contacted his handler earlier that morning to report on the nights activities, he had been warned that his target would be at her most suspicious.

" _Just remember the role you're playing. I don't like that she told you she's got a job to do. Whatever it is, you're just going to have to roll with it. It'll be a test of some sort. Don't worry about any blow back from the local guys; we can smooth things over. Just don't fuck up."_

It had been on the tip of his tongue to snap back this wasn't his first time at drawing in a potential asset, but good sense had made him refrain. The British were in his opinion still being far too cautious.

At the fairground, he had dutifully let her lead the way and choose the rides they went on. As he expected, Fiona picked the ones that went fast, or upside down or preferably both. An hour later, they were walking arm in arm sharing a stick of candy floss while checking out the various stalls and side shows until she all but dragged him over to a shooting range and challenged him to a contest. In a closely run contest with a pair of ancient air rifles, the petite paramilitary won them a large yellow fluffy teddy bear, which she gave him the honor of carrying.

Afterwards they walked into the city center and found a bar selling pub food. He had scowled at the men who followed her with their eyes when she sashayed off to the toilets. She elbowed him hard in the ribs when a bar maid spent too long counting his change into his hand.

But then, just after last orders were called, Fiona had squeezed his arm and whispered that it was time for them to go. "Remember tha little job I told ya about? It's nearly time."

They stepped outside into a downpour of rain and ran along the near deserted streets until they found some shelter in a shop doorway. Laughingly, they shook the rain out of their hair before she took his breath away by slamming him back forcibly against the metal shutter covering the door.

"Do ya want to know what really turns me on?" The words were growled out between lips which brushed over his ear before sharp little teeth bit down on his lobe, causing him to gasp in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

"Mmm…." he mumbled when he found the power of speech again, one hand still gripping her prize bear, the other tangling in her hair and pulling her head into a long kiss.

The Irishwoman broke away from him, her eyes sparkling, her breath quickening.

"How do you feel about getting us a fast car?" she asked.

Michael sighed and looked down at her expectant expression. "Ya have a job ta do and ya didn't think to get yourself a car?"

 _She liked him, that much was obvious and now she was testing him._ The spy caught hold of her and changed their positions, so she was now against the security door. He pushed his knee in between her legs, spreading them apart and leaning over her, his dominant position at odds with the gentle way he nibbled her ear before breathing gently against her neck.

"Now, why would I need to get my own car when I have one o' tha most talented wheel men to grace our shores at me beck an' call."

"One of the most talented wheel men in the whole of Ireland... I like the sound of that." He smirked, and then, when his mind caught up with another of her statements, he had been unable to stop himself asking. "Exactly how turned on…?"

With the teddy bear discarded on the damp pavement, he used his body weight to keep her pinned against the door as his hands slipped inside the unbuttoned trench coat, his thumbs brushing against the sides of her bra.

"Depends on how fast a car," she replied as she reached up to scrape her nails over his scalp pulling his head back while her lips grazed on his exposed neck.

The American spy stretched his chin upwards, giving her full access to his throat, feeling a mix of gentle kisses and little nips along his jaw. Fiona released his head and wrapped her arms around his waist, then snuggled her head against his chest.

"Get me a Porsche, Michael. There is a dealership two streets away."

He rested his chin on the top of her head. "I don' have me tools with me," he admitted. Michael felt the redhead start to try to pull away and he tightened his hold on her arms. "I can get into any car, but a dealership, they'll be alarms an' without me tools..." _Keep to your cover,_ _h_ e reminded himself.

"Oh, I can get us in anywhere... I never come out without the _right tools_."

He had felt distinctly uncomfortable as she had gazed up at him, the tip of her tongue wetting her lips as one slender hand rubbed across the front of his jeans and then before he could come up with a reply, the wild Irishwoman had wriggled out from under him and picked up her prize bear, brushing the fur straight.

"Come along, Michael, did I not mention Am on a schedule?" She gave him no choice. Hooking the fingers of her free hand into his waistband, she pulled the dark haired man along in her wake.

They carried on down the narrow street, out onto another main road and then across to a large flashy luxury car dealership. Fiona peered through the windows and pointed to a black 968 convertible.

"That one," she told him.

He smiled and lent back against the glass. " _You_ said _you_ would get us in," he pointed out.

She gave him a mischievous grin. "Hold the bear."

The spy felt a little bit ridiculous standing out in the pouring rain clutching a large fluffy yellow teddy bear to his chest while his new friend used his body to cover her lock picking activities.

"You know there's an alarm in there? Looks like it's a key pad."

"I can see that, Michael. One thing at a time." She had the door open and was heading for the alarm. He wondered if he should risk his cover and help her.

"There," the redhead smirked. "All done…." Her fingers ran along a row of keys hanging on hooks. "All ya're goin' to have to do is find the right key."

Michael dropped the bear onto the back seat of the car she had chosen and came over to where she was picking the right key for him. He planted a gentle kiss on her collar bone and whispered in her ear. "Ya're not finished. Are ya going to open the front up for me to get the car out?"

Fiona laughed and almost skipped over to the large glass doors. Finding the clips, she slid them open as he started the engine and then raised the folded roof before pressing down hard on the accelerator, revving the engine. As soon as she jumped in beside him, Agent Westen floored the car, rapidly going through the gears he took them into the city and hoping his handlers kept to their word about clearing his illegal activities.

"Where to…?"

"Back the way we came. I'll direct you," she answered as she leaned forward, searching under the passenger seat until she sat up to reveal a small canvas bag.

"Ya planned on stealing this car!" Michael accused, as he realised he had been out maneuvered by the petite hellion sitting at his side.

"I told ya before, Am _always_ prepared. Now take the second turning on the left and let me out round the corner... And Michael…" She had the car door open as soon as he brought the vehicle to a stop. "Keep tha engine running."

And then the Irishwoman was gone, running across the street to the line of cars parked along the curb.

He'd had no idea what she was planning, but he was used to thinking on his feet. One thing he had been sure of was that the British agents had been right: _the Glenanne girl was going to be a handful_.

Keeping one eye on the rear view mirror which allowed him to watch as the petite 'black' haired woman ducked down beside a parked car and placed what looked like a bomb underneath, he used his other eye to find a safe spot to wait for her as she planted two more devices under other vehicles.

"Why did ya park so far away?" Fiona demanded as she slid down into the seat next to him, her face flushed with excitement, though her eyes held a glint of anger at having to run further down the road than she had been planning.

"I didn't want to get blocked in," the American operative answered, though in truth at that moment he was more interested in the two cars which were passing by at high speed. "I had a notion ya were doing more than slashing tires."

One – two – three – explosions, strong enough to make the Porsche rock and set off car alarms down the length of the street, also conveniently brought to a stop the three police cars, which had been giving chase to the fast moving vehicles that had just shot by.

"Ya think ya know me, Michael McBride?" she whispered huskily into his ear.

There were dozens of other things he should have been considering at that moment, but all he was thinking about was how beautiful she looked with the flickering flames behind them illuminating her features.

"I think Am learning." He hadn't been able to stop himself from drawing her into a kiss and had then found himself surprised yet again in the passion with which she responded.

The kiss only ended because of the sound of the heavy boots running towards them and shouted orders to exit the vehicle.

"Time ta go..."

"Or we could shoot them," Fiona offered an alternative, her hand bringing out her .38.

"Not today, I think we've had enough excitement for one night."

Pulling away fast, he hadn't given her the chance to act on her bloodthirsty nature. His MI5 contact had promised to smooth over any crimes he committed while on the job but the murder of a couple of police officers would probably be too much of a stretch.

The loud beeping of several car horns brought the soon to be reinstated spy back to the present and he realized the traffic ahead of him had moved off, leaving a large gap ahead. Ignoring the sound of frustrated Miami drivers taking place behind him, Michael eased his foot off the Charger's brake and quickly caught up with the slow moving line of traffic.

The turn off which would take him along the promenade was coming up, a quick glance at his wristwatch told him he was still making good time. He wanted arrive in plenty of time for his meeting with his unwilling CIA contact just in case it wasn't the good news he was expecting.

He knew is mind should be completely focused on Diego Garcia and what he might have to say. He had worked too hard and had never gotten as close as he was to getting his job back as he was now.

He had alienated his friends, even Sam, who while being supportive had let his dislike for Tom Strickler show. The former CIA agent pursed his lips. Regardless of what Fiona thought, he was doing this for them all. He was doing this to keep _everyone_ safe. His name was out there for all to see. Without the protection of an agency, he was putting everyone who knew him in danger.

 _Danger... It wasn't until he had begun working with Fiona that he had realized what an aphrodisiac danger could be. Oh, he knew all about the thrill of walking away from a near death situation, but with Fiona Glenanne that head rush had been taken to a whole new level._

After the explosions and the near miss with Belfast's finest, she had directed out of the city and onto the twisting, unlit country lanes of rural County Down. "I have another car ready an' waitin'. We'll dump this one an' then go back ta my place."

The Porsche tires skidded on the gravel and mud which littered the road surface causing frequent massive under steer that made him very aware of the high stone walls lining much of their way. But woman beside him, sans the ugly black wig which was now laying on the back seat along with the teddy bear, hadn't cared about them ending up buried into a wall or upside down in a farmer's field.

 _She'd had other ideas..._

As much as he had been aware of the road conditions, the spy was even more aware of the hand gently stroking his left thigh.

"Faster, Michael, stop playing games!" She twisted in the bucket seat, leaning her other hand on his stomach, her perfectly manicured nails tapping on his belt buckle. The car felt like it dropped and shot forward even faster.

Her right hand was no longer on his thigh and the seasoned covert operative was nevertheless finding it harder to concentrate as her left freed his belt from the buckle.

"If you keep this up, we're not going to make it home." He gasped as the zip on his jeans slid down.

Fiona flicked the button on his waistband undone, giving her hand free access. "But you showed such self-control last night."

The car swerved, tires squealing in protest as he brought it to a skidding halt.

"That was last night," he growled.

Pushing his seat as far back as it would go, the dark haired man turned towards her, pulling her into a kiss, his mouth hard against hers, his tongue pushing against her teeth demanding entry.

Not to be out done, Fiona shimmied her tight skirt up over her hips and climbed astride his lap. One hand now inside his boxers, she felt him grow in her hand and his breathing become more ragged.

"Ahhh, me lovely man..." Her words had come out in a throaty growl as she stroked up and down his growing length.

"Bloody hell, girl," he groaned, resting his chin on her shoulder. Michael lifted her top up, his fingers finding the fastener on her bra. Then he lowered his mouth and latched onto one now bare breast, his teeth grazing her nipple.

The way she had arched into his touch and the long sigh that had slipped from between her lips sent the blood rushing from his brain to feed the another part of his anatomy which was growing even harder under the ministrations of her hand and it wasn't long before the cramped conditions inside the car was not enough.

Flinging the door open, he drew back and half pushed her out into the rain. "Get out."

"Michael!"

The spy followed her out. Not giving the auburn haired woman any chance to protest any further, he picked her up and dropped her down onto the long sleek bonnet of the Porsche.

"I want ya _now_."

With her skirt already up around her waist, it gave him easy access to thrust aside her panties and cup her womanhood, to feel the heat of her own desire. _The Irish hellcat lying before him didn't want safe and would be bored by gentleness. She needed passion and spontaneity._

Even though in the back of his mind his brain was telling at him he was committing tactical suicide, the American operative didn't care because all his instincts were yelling at him to take her right there and then on the hood of a stolen car in the pouring rain...

And when he had slipped his index finger into the warmth of her moist center and her legs had locked about his waist, Michael had known he was right.

With heaving breaths and a scrabble of fingers, they quickly had her knickers half way off and twisted about one leg and his jeans and boxers hanging midway down his thighs. The risk of being seen, the danger of being caught or shot, the rain which was soaking them to the skin and running off them both in rivelets, none of that mattered as he slowly pushed into her feeling, sleek muscles cocooning him and emptying his mind of anything even resembling coherent thought.

They paused like that for a moment, until the heels of her shoes dug sharply into his flanks driving him on, his hips bucking into her slowly at first and then faster as she urged him on.

It was all over quicker than he had wanted. Fiona came in a rush, her nails scraping down his sides hard enough to draw blood and then, with more control than he would have believed possible at the time, Michael had pulled out just before he came, letting her finish him off by hand.

Falling back afterwards his Irish vixen lay sprawled wantonly on the hood of the car as he leaned over her with a hand either side of her shoulders. Slowly, Michael took one hand away to wipe his arm across his forehead as he gazed down at her, her hair fanned out, framing her face which was flushed, her eyes shining. Fiona ran her tongue over her lips, her eyes drinking in his features as raindrops continued to fall and trail down her cheeks.

"We should get going."

He nodded, pulling up his boxers and jeans and then helping her back into her clothes. Back inside the car, he started the engine and looked across at her. Swallowed thickly, he asked, "Fancy going out tomorrow night?"

Fiona Glenanne, his intended target, leaned her head back against the headrest, her eyes half closed.

"I think… I think tomorrow we should spend the night in." She turned and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. "What do you say?"

And for the first time Michael McBride and Michael Westen found themselves wanting _exactly_ the same thing.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer: I forgot to put a disclaimer at the beginning of this series of stories, so here it is. I own no part of Burn Notice, even though I wished I did :) This story is written for fun.**_

 **A/N:** _Thank you for all the lovely reviews for the first two chapters. This next one continues through the S3 Episode_ _Long Way Back_ _ & into the beginning of of the following episode, __A Dark Road_ _._

 _This time it is Fiona Glenanne whose memories of past actions are brought to the fore as, along with her brother Sean, our favorite couple take on Thomas O'Neill._

 _Because Jedi Skysinger and myself have created such a detailed back story for the Burn Notice characters, which we use in most of our stories and those posted as Jedi's Pal, I thought I would post another reminder that this particular story is completely separate to all my other stories._

 **THE IRISH ASSIGNMENT**

 **Part Three**

 **ooOoo**

 **The First Time Fiona Thought She'd Gotten Michael killed**

 **2009**

Sean Glenanne swallowed down the last mouthful of the Cuban sandwich his sister had ordered for him for lunch and pushed back his chair at the small table in the kitchen of the luxurious safe house supplied by his sister's and McBride's American friend, Sam Axe.

"It felt a bit like the old days," he remarked, breaking the comfortable silence. "Making that bomb... It reminded me o' when we used ta work together in Belfast-" He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied his sister's unhappy visage. "Are ya sure ya want ta be comin' home with me, Fi? I mean, our mam is lookin' forward ta yar return, she was airing out yar room an' talking about hanging new curtains when I left but -"

"But the rest of them haven't forgiven me for how I left," she finished off his sentence.

Stopping the bombing of a preparatory school had been the right thing to do. Every one of them had agreed with her that Thomas O'Neill was a lunatic who needed to be stopped and if she had killed him, she would have had received their complete support.

But she hadn't killed him.

The bloodthirsty hooligan had stood before her in the old warehouse he had been using as his primary base of operations, grinning broadly and full of his own self-importance while boldly boasting of what he had just done, expecting her approval and admiration for the act of terror he was about to bring about.

" _I can see the headlines, all them little rich kiddies blown ta pieces... I'll be a fecking hero... I'll go down in history fer this and ya'll be right at me side, girl. I swear together we'll show the world there'll be no peace until Ireland is free."_

Instead of feeling adulation for the new man in her life, her blood had run cold with horror as he had continued to crow about the scene that would soon be played out and the infamy it would bring.

" _I hadda real piece o' inspiration. I put two cans o' rat poison in with the ball bearings... It'll make sure they won't be able ta stop the bleedin' on any that survive the blast... Am I a fecking genius or what?"_

The bomb was already in place, thirty minutes away from where they stood and the timer set to go off in less than twenty…

Had she not rushed out of her apartment to meet with him, she would have been better prepared. But he had been so insistent and sounded so excited on the phone she had left without taking the usual precaution of arming herself. Even now, years later, she kicked herself for the unusual oversight. How could she have gotten so involved with such a murderous bastard as to do that?

So, instead of reaching for the gun she usually had tucked into her waistband, she had grabbed the nearest weapon to hand, a stray brick off a pile of rubble next to where they stood, and knocked the lunatic Irishman out with a well-placed blow to the side of jaw, sending several of his teeth flying out of his mouth before running to the nearest payphone, making an anonymous call to the police and giving away her rogue lover's location.

If Thomas O'Neill could plan such a thing, he was not the man she'd thought him to be and he needed stopping. She hadn't had the time to do anything else…

It was that call which had made her a tout and a traitor to the cause and that was something not even her own family could forgive her for. It hadn't mattered that call to the police had been the only way to save innocent children and ensure O'Neill was held accountable. She had left Ireland barely two steps ahead of a large group of very angry men all out for her blood.

In hindsight now of course, she knew she hadn't been thinking very clearly at the time… Blinded by her infatuation with the dark haired Irishman… Seemed to be a habit she couldn't stop repeating.

"They might not like it, but they won't turn me away." She tried to smile, but it was hard in the face of all that was happening. "And I promised them I wouldn't out stay my welcome. I – I just need time, time to -"

In a moment of empathy, Sean reached across the table to squeeze his younger sibling's hand, his intense blue-green eyes staring into her matching orbs _. They were so much alike, more like twins than brother and sister born four years apart_.

"You're no more gonna forget McBride than he is you."

He sighed and got to his feet when she didn't answer him. "I'm gonna check we've got everything from upstairs. If McBride's grand plan works as he says it will, it'll all be over by nightfall and we'll be on our way home."

Pursing her lips, she watched as her brother left the table, his long legs carrying him out of the room and towards the long sweeping staircase.

 _Going home was the right thing to do. All that had happened over the last few months had thrown off her equilibrium and she wasn't going to get back to her old self if she remained on the same continent as her ex-boyfriend_ _. Michael always had a way of luring her into helping him against her better judgment._ _She was a gun runner, a bank robber and on occasion when the mood took her she did good deeds for people who couldn't help themselves. What she wasn't was a slave to either a faceless government or even worse a slimy snake of a man who promised the world but at a price._

With an angry huff, the petite Irishwoman got to her feet. _She wasn't going to think about Tom Strickler…_ _Michael had made his choice and she had made hers; i_ _n twenty-four hours, she would be on a boat out in the Atlantic and spies and all their problems would no longer be any of hers._

Fiona was clearing the table when she heard the click of the front door opening and Sean's voice echo down from the upper floor, giving away the identity of their guest.

"McBride, I'll be right there."

"That's fine, Sean."

The redhead glanced up as the man on her mind walked towards her, his arms full carrying two large cardboard boxes which he placed on the edge of the table.

"That's the last of what you packed." He spoke with McBride's soft brogue for Sean's benefit. Resting his arms on top of the boxes, he gazed back her, a half smile on his lips in way of a greeting.

It was the last of her belongings from the loft, the last of the stuff she had left at his place: changes of clothes, shoes, pieces of jewellery, the odd piece of C4... _Part of her heart_.

Unable to look at him, she turned away, carrying the dirty dishes over to the counter top. "It seems a shame to leave so much behind. I was just getting comfortable... I know you're trained to walk away from everything in thirty minutes or less-"

"But tis not easy fer everyone," he finished her sentence for her and their eyes met and without conscious thought, they moved towards each other, both drawn to the French doors which led out onto a wide terrace and a swimming pool beyond.

"I can't believe in a few days I'll be waking up back home."

"And you'll be you again, Fi." She could see it in his eyes that he wanted to say more, but knew he wouldn't. It was a pointless argument; she knew that now. He had made it clear he wasn't capable of change, so it was up to her to leave or keep having her heart broken.

"I wonder what it'll be like?"

"You'll have your friends there and your family."

"They don't know me anymore."

"You're still the same person."

"No, I'm not. Who I am now has so much to do with what I've done here… with you."

"Fi…" He breathed out her name and she felt her resolve slip a little bit.

 _All he had to do was tell her this thing he had with Strickler was over and she would stay. But he wouldn't or rather couldn't do that; the scared call of duty was too strong, too deeply embedded in the soul of the spy._

"It's okay, Michael, we're _so_ not good at this."

"Alright, everything taken care of?" Sean's voice broke the spell and they moved apart just as her older brother came into the room, brushing by the spy in an effort to see what had held the couple's attention outside the French doors.

"Yeah, let's go..." Michael was already on his way out, when he stopped and turned. "Sean, ya have ta stop parking yar stolen car on the side street. Tis too exposed."

"What? I left it in a parking lot this morning." Her brother spun around, his quick temper rising at the accusation and the petite redhead with a huff of frustration prepared to get between the two men, as Michael stiffened and took a step toward Sean.

"That's not yar Toyota, a block away parked behind some trees?"

The shattering of one of the glass panes on the French doors and the sight of a canister of tear gas rolling across the room between them had all three reaching for their guns, their eyes searching out the enemy as the cloud of gas rose up and swirled about them. But they were too late.

The loud bang of a shotgun drew Fiona's eyes across the room to where Michael had been standing. Her mind was barely able to comprehend the sight in front of her as her lover's back arched and he fell forward crashing to the ground, his body limp and unresponsive.

Then, before she could react, her brother was cut down too, his body riddled with bullets from automatic weapons which left him pinned in the corner of the room, blood covering his shirt front and splattered on the walls.

In a blind rage, she brought up her own weapon, determined to take revenge or die trying, but her H & K was snatched out of her hands as strong arms wrapped about her waist, pinning her limbs to her side and lifting her feet from the ground.

"Get tha girl, get tha girl outta here now, Leonard!" O'Neill's hated voice sounded as if from a distance as she was carried, kicking, biting and fighting with every ounce of strength away from the house.

"Feck it, girl, quit it!" her captor growled in her ear, his arms tightening their grip in an effort to force the air from her lungs.

"I'll shut har up," another of the men answered and at that moment her world went black… And in the cold darkness a memory from her past rushed to the surface.

 **()()()()()()()**

 **Belfast 1998**

 _It was her fault; her boyfriend was dead._

"Sean!" she was shrieking into the phone, her whole body trembling with the shock of what she had witnessed minutes earlier. An ambush, Michael cut down by a shotgun blast and then a short rapid drive deep into republican territory to escape the pursing loyalist death squad.

"H-help me. I fecked up. There was three o' them. I – I didn't -" She couldn't get the words out as sobs were torn from her throat as shock set in.

"Fi, Fiona!" Sean's concerned voice came through the handset. "Where are you? What's happened?"

"Just get here!"

"Fiona!" he shouted into the phone. "For fucks sake, girl, you're scaring me! I can't come if ya don't tell me where are ya."

"W-w-we're…" She could no longer speak, as across from where she stood, her lover's blood soaked body began to writhe as Michael McBride momentarily came too and began to thrash about on the bed before he suddenly went lax again. "It's too late…" she whispered.

"FIONA!"

His panicked voice came through the headset, but she couldn't answer as she sunk to the floor, her mind going blank. With her heart breaking, she was barely aware of the large calloused hands taking the phone away.

"She's alright, Mr Glenanne, it's Rory, Rory Sheenan - from the Red Bull Pub - the one just off the Falls. Ya need to get over here right now... Yar sister? She's fine, sir, tis her fella... She came ta me door bangin' on it like the hounds o' hell were on her tail covered in blood. Her man has been shot. Looks he took a blast to the head an' body. He's alive but -"

 **()()()()()()()()**

 **Miami 2009**

"Hey, hey, sweetheart, keep still or ya'll feel more than the back o' me hand next time."

Fiona woke up as her captors were trying to force her into the back of a large SUV and even though not fully conscious, it wasn't in her nature to give up. Lashing out blindly with her feet and fists, she was determined to make it as hard as possible for O'Neill's team to keep hold of her.

With Michael dead or dying and her brother cut down, she had nothing left to live for; her only wish now was to take out as many of the men holding as she could before they had a chance to put her on the auction block.

Pushing and pulling, it wasn't long before brute strength won out and they finally forced her into the vehicle. But even when facing insurmountable odds, the former paramilitary refused to give up and managed to head butt the man nearest her, feeling a satisfying thud when her forehead connected with the bridge of his nose. The sight of blood pouring down his chin was a welcome bonus, urging her on to greater violence. She opened her mouth wide and attempted to bite down on his bristle covered cheek.

"Fucking bitch! Grab her!"

Hands far stronger than her own dragged her arms behind her back, seconds before a fist swung around and landed a stunning blow to the side of her head. As she slumped back, all she could think of was that none of this mattered because Michael was dead and it was something she had done that had caused it to happen… _Just like she had before…_

 **()()()()()()()()**

 _ **Belfast 1998**_

 _It had started two weeks earlier in the same way so many killings occurred. A retaliation for one death leading to more and more bloodshed until there was nobody left alive who could remember the cause of the original grievance or what had started it all._

 _The sun was just beginning to rise on what had promised to be a bright sunny day. Police Constable Eric Danbury had kissed his wife and three children goodbye and made his way outside to his car waiting on the driveway. After giving the vehicle a cursory check over, he had unlocked the door and slid down onto the seat. As he turned the ignition key and eased his foot off the brake pedal, his last thought had been about the family holiday they had coming up the following week._

 _It was said the explosion was heard over two miles away, that the windows of the police officer's home shattered sending glass across the rooms and, as black acrid smoke rose up into the clear blue sky, the screams of Mrs Jennifer Danbury rang out loudly throughout the neighborhood._

 _A massive media frenzy followed, raising fears that the peace being promised by the talks taking place in Stormont Castle and in London's Whitehall was about to be destroyed by those who still wished to live by the gun. Headlines spoke of a return to the streets running with blood and the politicians demanded that the police seek out the culprits and bring about swift justice._

 _Constable Danbury's colleagues set about bringing in all the usual suspects with a vigour driven by the need for justice or vengeance for their fallen comrade. No one was safe from the wrath of the Police Service of Northern Ireland backed up by undercover agents of the British government._

 _Luckily by the time her own front door was smashed down, Fiona had had the sense to remove every single piece of Semtex, C4 and artillery she usually kept hidden in her home._

 _She had been pleased how her new lover had calmly handled the situation and done nothing to make matters worse as heavily armed men wearing full tactical gear thrust rifle barrels in their faces while others rampaged through her home leaving chaos in their wake._

 _The tiny Irishwoman also bitterly recalled how at the time she had naively wondered how the PSNI had so quickly found the location of her latest safe house._

 _For the next few days, everyone in the local community was on edge. Doors were opened with caution, vehicles were kept under lock and key and double checked before approaching too close and then checked again before turning the key to start the engine._ _A reprisal was bound to occur. Sooner rather than later, somebody would die and the death toll would rise and friends of the next victim would clamour for revenge and another death would be planned and on and on it would go._

On the day of Eric Danbury's funeral, there were news reporters and cameras on every street all desperately searching for a story and in the process stirring up the already heighten feelings of anger and fear in hope of creating the very incident they would later condemn to all their readers.

And even though the Real IRA had already publicly claimed responsibility for the young officer's murder, there had been no arrests and because of that, everyone within the republican communities were holding their breaths waiting for some kind of retaliation to take place. It was a day when anyone with an ounce of sense stayed off the street and away from any uncovered windows.

She and Michael had chosen to spend the day curled up on the couch watching videos and getting to know each other a little better.

 _God, in those days they couldn't keep their hands off each other..._

"That's the third war film we've watched today... How about something a bit lighter?" McBride complained from his position stretched out, bare-chested, along the length of her couch as " _The Longest Day_ " finally came to an end.

"I have Rambo, or would ya prefer -"

"I prefer ya, right here an' now." His voice, low and husky in her ear, sent a shiver down her spine and blood rushing to her cheeks as he twisted around to lean off the edge of the couch, slipping his hands under her T shirt to cup her bare breasts and distracting her from the task of removing Rambo from the video sleeve.

"You're insatiable."

Discarding her latest movie choice, Fiona had turned around to smile up at him before using her hip to unbalance her dark haired lover and topple him off the couch and onto the floor.

"It's one o' the things I like about ya…" She sat astride him now, her fingernails scraping across his nipples and making him squirm beneath her.

"These are one… or should it be two o' the things I like about ya." His head slipped underneath her top, his mouth closing about her right breast, his teeth tugging on her nipple, sending a wave of pleasure mixed with pain throughout her body.

They were in process of wrestling her top over her head when the phone began to ring.

"Leave it," he mumbled into her neck when the insistent noise failed to stop after a minute.

"It, it c-could be important," she replied half-heartedly, because right then McBride's hand was cupping her most intimate part while his teeth nibbled on a very sensitive spot behind her ear.

"Ya said it would be quiet today, everyone would be inside. Ya said -"

But the ringing didn't stopped and in the end with a groan of frustration she disentangled herself from her lover's arms and got up to answer it.

 _The call had indeed been important. It had been the wife of one of her team of bank robbers, a fine man with a loving family and in no way involved in her other paramilitary activities._

" _I answered the door without thinking and three men knocked me down and they took Daryl_ _!"_ the hysterical wife of her partner in larceny informed her. _"What am I gonna do, Ms. Glenanne? I – I can't call the police... They said they'd kill him if I called anyone. What do they -"_

"I'm on my way over," Fiona answered quickly.

 _She had known exactly what they wanted..._ _A career criminal was a far easier target than a trained paramilitary who was expecting an attack. Even as she had taken the call, she had already suspected that most likely Daryl was already dead, but he was one of her men. She had to try to save him._

"I have ta go." She spun around, her eyes searching the room for her missing bra while her fingers hauled up her jeans.

"I'll come with ya," her new lover offered.

"Ya don't have ta. Tis only a coupla streets over."

"I'm coming." Michael declared, reaching between the two cushions on the couch and holding up the missing piece of lingerie. "Ya may need me."

"Fine," the fiery redhead huffed, snatching the lacy garment from out of his out stretched hand. "But ya need to listen an' do what I say, are we clear?"

"You're the expert."

Once they were both fully clothed, she let him drive while she spent the time on the short ride checking her revolver and making sure her lover understood the danger she was taking him into.

"I want ya to stay in the car, keep the engine runnin' an' yar eyes open."

"I should come in with ya. It could be a trap."

"No, I know what I'm doin', wait here, Michael." She gave him an indulgent smile. "I'm a big girl. I can look after myself," had been her final word on the matter as she had left the vehicle and taken the few short steps which would lead her to her friend's front door.

 _Why did the men in her life always think she needed babysitting?_

 _But as soon as she had entered the house she had known Michael was right; it was a trap. Two men, their faces hidden under balaclavas, had been standing in the middle of the room with sawn off shot guns in their gloved hands, one aimed at her friend's children, the other one aimed straight at the doorway she hand been standing in._

 _No way she would have been willing to_ _risk opening fire with children in the same room so she had whipped around and fled, slamming the front door behind her, hoping it would delay the masked men just long enough for her to reach her waiting ride._

"Mi -!" Her shout of warning died on her lips at the sight she beheld.

A third gunman was aiming the smoking barrel of a sawn down shotgun at the door of her car.

"NO!" she screamed as she opened fire, cutting the attacker down, but not before he fired the second barrel into the door panel her lover was using for cover.

"Michael! Michael!" Fiona rushed to the vehicle, throwing open the bullet torn door to reveal her boyfriend's limp and bloody body covered in tiny shards of glass from the broken windscreen. He was slumped over, one arm dangling into the passenger footwell, his hand still gripping the handle of the Glock pistol she had ordered him to start carrying.

 _There had been no time to check him over or to dress the wounds, as the men from the house had already been pouring out onto the street. But they had either been bad shots or the sight of their comrade bleeding to death on the street had affected their aim and she hadn't been killed._

" _Shove over, McBride!" It had been hard work to maneuver her lover's deadweight to make enough room for her to fit behind the wheel but somehow she had managed it. Unable to reach the gear lever properly, or even steer safely because of how Michael lay, she had done the best she could to get them away._

 _She knew from all her years robbing banks and her other illegal activities that the longer you have to run, the more likely you are to be caught. That there is generally only a small window of time after you begin to run before the ones doing the chasing call for back up and get organized. She had known she needed to find some place safe and secluded to bail out and get McBride the care he urgently required._

 _She had spotted the Red Bull; the publican was a sympathizer and desperate woman that she was, she had decided to take a chance on him being willing to give aid._

Bringing the car to a stop, the petite paramilitary quickly reached down to check her lover's pulse and was relieved to feel a faint but steady beat... Leaving the vehicle, she had ran across the road and around to the side to hammer on the door which led into the owner's private quarters.

Rory Sheenan looked with horror at the bloodstain young woman staring back at him over the barrel of a gun.

"I need yar help." Fiona grabbed his arm in a surprising strong grip, giving him no choice but to follow her out into the street and over to a bullet ridden vehicle partially hidden by several large refuse bins.

"Ya have ta help me." The republican guerrilla flung open the door to reveal the blood soaked body of a man lying across the front seats.

"Saints preserve us!" He recoiled at the sight, but then steadied himself as the auburn haired woman dug her weapon into his side.

"We have to move him now... Help me an' I'll make it worth yar while."

Muttering only half remembered prayers while he reached into the vehicle and gingerly pulled her man's body from the car, she said, "Take him inside. I'll move the car." Fiona's voice was dull now.

 _She'd been convinced that Michael was going to die; no one lost that much blood and survived._

"Leave it, Miss Glenanne," Sheenan spoke kindly.

 _She could tell that once he'd had a chance to catch his breath, he'd recognized her and had been all too eager to play the good Samaritan._ "Me boy will get rid of it. Let's get yer man inside."

The petite redhead stood with her gun drawn, ready to kill anyone brave enough to interfere while her new friend dragged McBride out of the car and then carried him in his arms into the back of the pub and up to the living quarters on the second floor.

 _She had stood by anxiously as Sheenan and his wife Mary had stripped away Michael's top layer of clothes and she had got her first look at the true extent of his wounds. The tiny pellets from two shotgun cartridges had shredded his sweater and peppered the right hand side of his face and torso._

Each swipe of the cloth Mary was using to clean away the blood only brought more of the thick red liquid bubbling to the surface and trailing down his exposed skin.

"Jesus, I've not seen blood like this since the fight las' Christmas when old man Christy got that bottle ta the throat... this man needs a priest, not a doctor."

"Hush, Mary, ya daft cow. Can ya not see -" Sheenan left his wife's side and rushed over to where Fiona stood too overwhelmed with shock at that moment to move.

"Pay her no mind, Ms. Glenanne… Say, why dontcha use me phone there, down tha corridor an' get ya man a doctor... I'm sure ya know just who to call."

 _With a numbness born out of grief sweeping over her, she had allowed the older heavier built man to guide her down to where a phone had sat on a tall dark wooden stand._

 _It hadn't been until she had begun to explain to Sean what had happened and she had witnessed McBride's body begin to thrash on the bed that she had begun to break. She had killed her boyfriend she had been certain of that. It was why she didn't let anyone get close._

 _It had been all her fault… she had taken her lover into a situation he wasn't equipped for. McBride was a car thief, not a soldier… or at least that was what she had thought at the time..._

 **()()()()()()()()**

 **Miami 2009**

"Okay, darlin', time ta wake up... Wake up, ya wee bitch." Somebody had hold of her arms and was shaking her hard enough that she felt a wrench in her neck.

As soon as her eyes snapped open, she realized several things at once: her hands were bound behind her back, her mouth was covered by duct tape and they had placed an old sack over her head to block her vision. But even without the ability to see outside, Fiona could feel the car she was traveling slow and heard the sound of a chain link gate being shut behind them... And then came the voice of the man she should have killed years ago.

"Alright, walk the perimeter. Keep your radios on channel one..."

The door opened but before the bound Irishwoman could get her bearings, she was being dragged backwards out of the SUV. "Hello sweetheart. This way, come along now..."

With the man who had organized the death of her lover and her brother so close, Fiona erupted with violence. She was no longer the twenty-four-year-old young woman who thought she was watching the new man in her life breathe his last. She was older, wiser and a lot tougher than back then.

Fiona redoubled her struggles and was rewarded by O'Neill's grunt of pain when one of her platform heels ran down his shin.

"Stop your nonsense... This way, sweetheart…" They almost fell through the entrance to what she guessed, from the feeling of a bare concrete floor under her feet, was an outbuilding or a shed.

"There we go, darlin'. I have a nice little seat for ya while we have a chat. How's that?" He was on her again in a second, pushing her down onto a chair and then in one swift move, he pulled off the head bag and ripped away the duct tape covering her mouth.

"Fiona Glenanne... God, I've waited a long time for this moment."

He devoured her with his eyes as Thomas O'Neill was clearly enjoying his victory… _it made her skin crawl… How had she ever let than hooligan into her life?_ "So have I... In my version, I was stabbing you in the throat with an ice pick. Is that how you saw it?"

"I can't say I did, no." He took a step back, laughing in the face of her impotent rage. "Not like that... But don't worry," and his tone changed from laughing to threatening in the blink of an eye as he glared back at her. "You'll get to spend plenty of time with some sharp metal instruments."

"You're putting me on the auction block..." _and despite her intentions otherwise, the thought of it filled her with dread and sent chills down her spine_. "You're not man enough to do it yourself."

"If this was just about you and me." He loomed over her, his hate now matching her own. "I'd be holding a bloody hammer and you would be choking on a mouthful of teeth... Those little teeth there."

She couldn't help but flinch when he poked a finger inches from her face, as the memories came flooding back of how O'Neill had lost his own teeth to the skilled application of a brick to the face.

"The thing is, it's bigger than us. Ya see, when I set foot on Irish soil again, it's gonna be a whole new world for me. Because there are some very powerful men who are going ta give me anything I want in exchange fer you. Ya see…? Even a seat at the table."

"There's no place in Ireland fer a bastid like you," she shot back, wishing all the more that she'd had the presence of mind to bring her weapon that day long ago and put one between O'Neill's eyes.

"There's always room fer another patriot."

"You're no patriot. You're a MONSTER! Who wraps himself in a cause to justify murdering children! Everyone in yar own country wants ya DEAD!"

 _She wanted him dead too… For everything he had planned to do and everything he'd done that had gotten Michael killed, she wanted to kill the man before her. She might have had a part in it, but Tommy Boy had been the one leading the attack against her former boyfriend._

"YOU'RE WRONG!" He followed up his words with a vicious punch which connected sharply with her already aching jaw, snapping her head to the side.

But in her present state she welcomed the pain; it helped focus her rage and urged her to fight on.

 _O'Neil was already unstable… if she could push him over the edge, he would begin to make mistakes and that would be her opening to attack._

Gathering up a mouthful of blood and saliva, she spat it out on to the floor, sending him a look full of loathing and disgust. "Ya hit like a girl."

Watching through narrowed eyes, the petite redhead couldn't stop the slow smile which pulled at her cut and bloody lip from the Irish hooligan's parting blow as the coward walked away from her.

"I win," she mouthed the words.

With the terrorist retreating to the far end of the storage shed and busy talking into his phone, Fiona took the time to fully consider her surroundings.

The shed was full of implements which if she were left alone she could use to free herself and take down at least a few of the bastards. There were even a couple of drills laying in plain sight which she would love to get the chance to try out on O'Neill's thick skull. The trouble with that being the way her captor kept glancing her direction, there was not a chance he was going to leave her unguarded for a moment.

She was his way back into the good graces of the men who were ruling Northern Ireland. She and McBride had caused a lot of mayhem during their time together back in the late nineties and now Michael was about to be outed as an American spy and those powerful men would want to make her pay for helping such a man to hide in their midst...

Fiona blinked as an uncomfortable thought hit her...

 _It had to have been that weasel Tom Strickler who'd set this up!_ Her Interpol file was easily accessible to anyone in the know. It would have been a piece of cake for that slimy snake to discover how best to make sure that once she left for Ireland, she could never come back.

The enraged Irishwoman reeled at the knowledge, nearly falling off the chair as she realized how the sneaky son of a bitch had manipulated the whole thing. She pulled at the ties holding her wrists together. _Oh she was gonna make that bastid pay fer this..._

 _"It might not be as bad as it looks."_

The voice of Mary Sheenan took Fiona by surprise. Her head was still spinning from O'Neill's parting shot along with all the other blows to the head she'd taken recently. _"Look, see, I was wrong now… the blood loss is slowing ya can see... Come an' take a look."_

The truth was staring her in the face: _Michael had to be alive_. Somehow, he must have survived because Tom Strickler was first and foremost a businessman. _Training a covert operative takes years and costs a lot of money, supposedly all for the taxpayers who paid the bills. In reality, it was worth a lot on the open market._ The self-styled agent to the spies wanted her out of the way, but he was still counting on making Michael his asset.

 _She knew now more than ever she needed to stay awake and alert. Because if Michael was alive, he would be coming after her._

A sudden wave of dizziness caught her by surprise and though she knew it had to be a hallucination, Fiona felt the gentle touch of the bar owner's wife's hand on her arm straightening her up, guiding her into the bedroom where Michael laid, pale as the white linen sheet covering his lower limbs.

Mrs. Sheenan had pulled away a bloody piece of gauze, away from the side of her lover's face to reveal several pock like holes in which the blood had already been clotting over.

 _"Look. See? Tis mostly the shot which caused the damage."_

The bound and groggy former paramilitary shook her head in an effort to clear the fog weaving through her mind, merging her memories, confusing her and muddling past and present. Michael had been shot in the back from close range, she had seen him fall… But unlike after the ambush back in Belfast, there had been no blood.

In her mind's eye, Fiona could see her younger self, studying McBride's profile as she had realized the truth of the older woman's words.

 _Michael had been shot through a car windscreen and then a door by a man wielding a sawn off shotgun. If he had been standing out in the open and closer to his attacker, her boyfriend would have definitely have ended up cut in half. But he had had the good sense to duck down. Only bad luck had left him unconscious and bloody_.

 _"He's cold…"_ She had sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and rubbed his one of his hands between her own. Now the adrenaline which had been flooding her body had receded, the redhead had been left feeling numb.

 _"It'll be the shock… We should raise his legs up."_ No longer in the grip of panic, she had been able to think more clearly and a lifetime of experience in battlefield medicine had come back to her.

As they had covered him over with blankets and put a couple of pillows under his legs, the kindly older woman had added. _"It'll be a devil of a job getting all them little pellets out, but I'm sure the doctor yar brother has sent fer will have him back on his feet in no time."_

 _"Sean will know what to do."_

"Sean…" Fiona choked on her brother's name, her eyes filling with moisture as the past memories receded in the presence of her grief. _There might not have been any blood on Michael's body, but there had been plenty splattered over her brother's shirt front and the wall behind him._

Unable to wipe away the tears forming in her eyes, the auburn haired woman sniffed and then stiffened as the sound of a chain link gate being torn off its hinges was followed by the staccato chatter of gunfire and a large explosion.

"O'Neill, get out here!"

"Michael…" She breathed his name and even managed a smile as O'Neill took off running, barking out orders to his men as he went… _Now you'll get yours, you bastard..._

 **()()()()()()()**

"... I've decided to take the listing off the market. I don't think it is time for me to leave yet."

Madeline Westen's softly spoken voice broke through all the fatigue and drug induced oblivion, drawing the injured auburn haired woman unwillingly back towards consciousness.

"I don't think it is time for me to leave yet..." The words resonated within Fiona's soul, stirring her from the comforting darkness enveloping her. _She wasn't ready to leave either, regardless of how much she had tried to convince herself leaving was the right thing to do._

"If that's what you think is best for you, mom…." She barely caught Michael's answer as she began to sink back into a comfortable semi-conscious stupor...

 _She was so tired... The needle Sam had stuck her with before Michael had carried her back to the Charger had obviously contained some of the good stuff._

The former republican guerrilla remembered the sights and sounds of being in the middle of a war zone. Of being used as a human shield by an evil coward as bullets zipped by her head and into the ground by her feet, driving her captor backwards along a narrow pier.

Then the exhilaration of breaking free, using her thick skull to break _tha bastid O'Neill's_ nose, the crunch of cartilage being squashed had been like music to her ears just before the cold of the water shocked her body and stole the air from her lungs and then, as she had sunk beneath the murky surface, the explosion of pain as a bullet ripped into her arm burned away what was left of her consciousness.

The next time she woke Michael was there, looming over her as she coughed up what had felt like gallons of sea water and the look of concern on his face as he had tenderly held her close chased away the last of the demons from her past.

Mostly Fiona remembered how safe and wanted she had felt as he had cradled her in his arms on the way back to the Charger, while in the background she had heard Sam Axe's softly spoken advice to be careful and not to bang her arm while maneuvering her onto the back seat of the black muscle car. _She promised herself once she felt better she would make the older man squirm for revealing how much he cared._

"Michael, get over here."

Hearing her brother's voice sounding so strong brought a warmth to hers heart. The Irishwoman had been scarce able to believe her older sibling had managed to survive the attack on the safe house.

" _Sean refused to go to the hospital. He was more worried about you than himself... Sam had to operate on him on the floor of that house… it was awful."_ It had been Madeline who had informed her in a whisper what happened to him as the older woman had aided her into a clean set of clothes.

"So it's Westen now, is it?"

"It has been for awhile. I owe you an explanation, erm..."

Although it seemed like a dense fog was still enveloping her brain, nonetheless the petite redhead could just imagine the expression on the burned spy's face as he dissembled.

"Back in Ireland there were a lot of questions about if you were one of us. I always thought you were... Now I know I was right."

"Thank you, Sean."

It was almost worth the pain of getting shot to hear the two men talk, rather than either yell or bitch at each other, which had been all they had managed to do before O'Neill had attacked. Safe in the knowledge all was well, she had begun to drift back off to sleep, but had to fight the urge at her brother's next words.

"The trouble is, O'Neill outted you as an American. You can never go back and, er, neither can she."

"Should I be looking out for anyone?"

 _She could never go back? She was in permanent exile now? The news tore at her heart…_

"No, I should be able to keep them at bay."

"I'll owe you for that."

"The hell ya will. That squares us… I er heard what you did to Strickler. If ya need any help running-"

"Strickler's body was found next to a certain type of bomb. Our friend O'Neill will be charged with his murder and with the twelve bombings in Europe."

"It's better than he deserves, but it'll do."

 _Strickler was dead?_ The news that her boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? The man she loved… had put her first filled her with joy, completely chasing away the sorrow that had engulfed her moments before.

 _It had been a long time since he had done that_. The last time felt like it had been a world way. The wounded woman swallowed thickly and grimaced at the dryness of her throat... _Belfast, after she had discovered his great betrayal_.

"Michael..." The weakness in her voice surprised her.

"Yes, Fi?" He was at her side in an instant.

"Hey…" Swallowing thickly, she tried to smile but it was too difficult. Focusing on his face was almost too much of an effort.

"Hi."

"I wanted to, um, I wanted to -" She desperately wanted to let him know her true feelings but couldn't get the words out. the petite redhead told herself it was the result of her injury, but deep down she knew it had more to do with her stubborn pride and a lingering fear.

"Don't… it's okay, we're no good at this," he answered softly.

 _It was true… They really weren't any good at all the regular relationship stuff other people seemed to find so easy..._

She wanted to say more, but was soon was fast asleep basking in the knowledge that Tom Strickler was dead and Thomas O'Neill wasn't going to be a problem for a very long time. Which meant that at least for the next few days, she and Michael were going to have some time to work on their dysfunctional relationship.

All things considered, nearly drowning with a bullet hole in her arm was a small price to pay…

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** _Thank you all for the interest and the reviews for this story. Burn Notice is the first site I found on Fanfic and I think it is wonderful that there is so many fans of the show still out there._

 _This is the second part of Fiona's pov, in the tale of how she nearly got her new boyfriend killed. The story is told in flashback during the events of S3 episodes Long Way Back & A Dark Road._

 **THE IRISH ASSIGNMENT**

Two weeks after Fiona's rescue

The following days drifted into one another as Fiona and her brother began to heal and far sooner than she wished, Sean was on his way home. After her sibling's departure, it was fairly easy for her convince Michael that, as much as she loved staying with his mother, she would be better off out from under Madeline's eagle eye and back to the relative privacy of her own condo and the luxury of her 800 thread count sheets and Hungarian goose down duvet.

" _I'm sure you can appreciate ten days in the company of your mother is fa -"_

" _You don't have to say anymore. I'll help you pack."_ Michael had cut her off, his expression of sympathy showed her he knew exactly how she felt.

It was only once she was home that she realized the former spy and his partner in crime, Sam Axe, had been using the time she had been distracted by Madeline's need for constant chatter to get involved in another mystery.

While she had been spending her waking moments either having the pleasure of catching up on the lives of everyone back home with her brother or the pain of getting to hear all the local gossip from Madeline, Michael had been spending most his time far away from his family home dealing with the fall out of his CIA contact's sudden death.

Even with her own prejudices against Diego Garcia, she found it hard to believe the man drank down a bottle of Scotch and then threw himself out of ten story window to crash to the ground below. But that didn't excuse him for only making flying visits home before rushing out again. Not that Michael was being very communicative even now she was away from Madeline's radar-like hearing.

Yawning and stretching, then cursing under her breath when her actions caused the stitches in her arm to pull, the petite red head rose up off the bed and walked slowly over to the bathroom across the hallway from her bedroom.

After finishing her ablutions, Fiona crossed back into her bedroom to stop in front of her wardrobe and stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. "Jaysus, I look like I'm at deaths door," she muttered under her breath as she ran her fingers through her limp tangled locks.

The Irishwoman had never thought of herself as vain, but a week stuck indoors and the earlier blood loss had left her looking pale and frail. Pursing her lips, she turned away from the mirror to looked towards the French doors which lead out to her private patio area.

A sharp stab of pain behind her eyes made her grimace. All the head butts she had delivered and the punches she had received in turn when fighting with O'Neill and his cohorts had possibly left her with a mild concussion… not that she was going to let Michael know as he was already being insufferably overprotective.

Maybe some fresh air and sunshine would help to drive away all the aches and pains of the worryingly close call with her past. She never had been one to enjoy lying around doing nothing, but if that was her only option she could at least use the time to improve her complexion.

A quick check of the rest of her home proved neither of her babysitters were present, which had to mean Sam and Michael were off working on who had killed Diego Garcia. Satisfied that nobody was about to demand she go back to bed and rest, the former paramilitary began gathering up everything she needed for a few hours soaking up the sun.

Having collected a bottle of spring water from the fridge, sun glasses, her favorite H&K with the silver slide, which had made a sudden reappearance shortly after her arrival back home,and the latest edition of Guns & Ammo from the coffee table, she made her way outside. Laying down on the white plastic lounger, Fiona sighed heavily as a wave of dizziness overtook her.

She was obviously weaker than she had first thought, or more likely the pain meds Michael was insisting she took were stronger than she'd been told.

" _Here..."_ He had held out a hand with two small white pills resting on his palm.

" _What's this?"_ She'd been nauseous, light headed and in some serious pain at the time.

" _Just something to help you rest,_ " he had used that sincere smile and _trust me_ expression that, if she had been feeling more like herself, might have made her more suspicious. _"You need some solid sleep and Mom was happy to donate from her pharmacy to the cause of your recovery."_

She snorted, remembering his attempt to bring Madeline's feelings into to it to guilt her into complying. _The bastard was obviously drugging her so he and Sam could sneak out safe in the knowledge she wouldn't be going anywhere_.

Wriggling down until she found a comfortable position, the petite redhead closed her eyes and fell into a light sleep as the Florida sun warmed her skin...

She really was going to make Michael pay for drugging her. _Oh, she knew why he was doing it, but that wouldn't save him from the beating coming his way once she was feeling more like her old self._

Her left hand drifted up to gently check the bandage on her right bicep. It had been while the boys were off taking Sean down to the docks to meet the boat taking him home and Madeline was attending an aqua-aerobics class that she had taken the opportunity to make some phone calls.

Fiona had been frustrated with all the things that had needed doing while she was lying about. She had inventory she needed to chase up for a start. There were a few of her gun smuggling friends who had been happy enough to help move her stock to Ireland, but were being less forthcoming about returning said items.

Then there was Calia, the young wife of a well-meaning idiot who had gotten himself killed taking part in an insurance scam... Now that she was injured if the advice she had given the younger woman didn't pan out she would have to involve Michael, which was something else that irritated the former gun runner.

But the deed that had been her undoing and caused the stitches which had been in for less than a week to burst open had occurred after the phone calls were finished. It was really rather silly and embarrassing: a slight bulge in her bicep as she performed the simple task of removing the twist cap from a bottle water had been all it took to send a wave of pain shooting down her arm as the small neat line of stitches had ripped apart and splattered blood over Madeline's tiled kitchen floor.

She half smiled as she remembered the stern lecture she had received when Michael had found her holding a gauze pad over the still bleeding wound while trying to clean his mother's floor and how after he had patched her back up the little white painkillers had made their first appearance.

 _Michael really was being such a baby about the scratch to her arm._ They had both suffered far more serious injuries in the past. It hadn't been that long ago that he had gotten himself blown up in the morning and then that same afternoon insisted on taking a job to take down a group of medical scam artists... _Not that she had really objected to destroying that little enterprise._

Yawning, the one time-terrorist turned her face to catch the full benefit of the suns rays, revelling in the warmth. _Why was she still so tired all the time?_ And it wasn't long before Ms. Glenanne was fast asleep, her mind taking her back to her first experience of dealing with an injured Michael Westen, though she had known him as McBride.

 _It had taken her a long time to come to terms with the knowledge that the dark haired man she had so quickly let into her life had used his vulnerability to worm his way deeper into her affections. It made her cringe every time she thought back to how she'd waited on him hand and foot in those early days, driven by guilt and the fear of how close she'd come to losing the man she cared for..._

 **()()()()()()()()()()**

 **Belfast '98**

Once Sean's doctor friend had dug out all the tiny pellets of lead, pieces of glass and metal shrapnel from McBride's hide and stitched up the worst of the wounds, she had surprised everybody who knew her with her total commitment to helping her new lover recover from his injuries.

Even going so far as insisting he moved into her new safe house in the shadow of the Divis tower blocks, deep in the heart of Belfast's Republican territory, as soon as they were given the all clear to leave the The Red Bull pub. There had been a lot of jokes made at her expense over that, especially from Sean who had suffered at the hands of her nursing skills or rather lack of said skills in the past... " _Jesus, Fi, I thought ya liked the lad? You're as like to poison him with your cookin' as get him back on his feet."_

Ignoring the jibes from her sibling over the following weeks, she only left McBride alone once, and that was in order to wreak revenge on the men who had killed her compatriot and nearly killed her quiet boyfriend from Kilkenny.

Her friend Daryl's body had washed up on the shore of the River Lagan a week after his kidnapping, his hands tied behind his back and a black bag covering his head. He had been shot through the chest five times at close range. Eight days later, the men who had committed the crime had met their own grisly end in a series of small explosions across Belfast and the suburbs.

It was as she walked through the front door of her new rental, her mind still reliving the happy memory of the man who had masterminded the kidnapping being turned into little more than a blackened stain on the pavement, when she noticed through the open living room door that somebody had been busy spring cleaning.

The smell of furniture polish filled the air, the three-piece suite had been moved, the scatter cushions all plumped up and the carpet covering the wooden floorboards had been vacuumed. Then she caught sight of the culprit, Michael McBride, duster in his right hand and a can of polish in the left.

"Hey Fi…" He smiled over at her and covered the space between them in a couple of strides, losing the cloth and can on the way.

In that instant, instead of feelings of gratitude for her boyfriend's housekeeping efforts, a fiery rage fuelled by concern had burst forth and as soon as the object of her anger came into range, she began to let him know exactly what she thought of his actions.

"Ya bloody idjit, have ya forgotten it's been barely a fortnight since the doctor had to dig thirty two pieces o' lead out of your worthless hide, five o' them from your thick skull? An' less than a week since ya came off the drip. Two courses o' anti-biotics, not to mention all tha bags o' blood an' saline Sean had ta steal from the hospital… Are ya trying to undo all the hard work ya put everyone to?"

Shrugging off her coat, the Irish hellcat used her forefinger for emphasis, jabbing her boyfriend right between the eyes, causing him to fall back against the hallway wall.

"Bloody hell, Fiona! I was just tryin' to do something nice for you," the new man in her life shouted back. "I wa' worried sick being locked up in here while ya was gone... I needed something to do... I shoulda been there backin' ya up."

"Backing me up? You're lucky not to have pulled any of your stitches out an' how many times do I have to tell ya I can look after me self," she had continued to scold him mercilessly as the doctor's warnings of blood poisoning due to the lead shot echoed around in her mind.

But Michael hadn't been ready to give up and had pulled her back around, one hand gliding up to cradle her cheek as he stared deeply into her eyes. "If you won't let me out, isn't there something else we could be doing? And I don't mean one more fecking game o' rummy."

She remembered how she had gasped as the fingers of his right hand had gently stroked down the center of her chest until they hooked into the waistband of her jeans.

"Tha doctor said ya were to take things easy." She had fought against her inclination to ravish him on the spot.

"We can take it easy." His lips had brushed against her cheek. "We can go as slow – or any speed ya like." While he distracted her with a long deep lingering kiss, his fingers attempted to make short work of her jeans waistband and zipper. "Whatever ya want."

"Ya should be restin'." She had captured his hands before they could do any more damage to her willpower. "Ya still have stitches in your head."

"I'll be fine as long as ya keep your hands outta me – hair."

"Back to bed with ya, McBride," Fiona declared firmly though it was taking all of her limited self-discipline to turn him down. "You've done enough today."

Somehow, she managed to guide him from against the hallway wall, up the narrow staircase and then into their bedroom without losing any of their clothing which in itself was an amazing feat.

"Inta bed with ya, Mr. McBride, or I'll be calling that doctor back for some sedatives... Something that will knock ya out for a week, ya see if I don't." Crossing her arms over her chest, the petite redhead did her best to stare him down dispassionately while he reluctantly stripped to his boxers.

But her patient's capitulation only lasted until he had settled down on the mattress and then with a sudden reach of his arm, Michael tried to pull her down on top of him, grunting with the effort. In the end, she had given in rather than risk falling on him, ending up sat astride his hips, desperately trying to hold back his exploring hands.

Even with all the bruising, cuts and grazes scattered over the right side of his torso, her lover still managed to look particularly delicious lying there underneath her, his deep blue eyes staring up, pleading with her to continue what he had attempted to start up against the hallway wall.

Fiona found her gaze sliding down his body, appreciating the sight of hard muscles under soft skin, enjoying the sensation of one part of his anatomy growing firmer and pushing against her bottom.

Releasing her grip on his hands, the petite paramilitary trailed her fingertips over his chest, careful to avoid a couple of sutures along the way, trying to use the time to attempt bring them both back to their senses and failing. It had been two weeks since they had last shared an intimate touch and when you were used to doing far more than touching at every opportunity, it had felt like a lifetime.

"Me brother's doctor friend mentioned ya have several old injuries... Like that one…"

One finger on her left hand settled over a small puck mark on his ribs. "It looks just like a bullet grazed ya ribs. And this one…" Her hand moved lower, as her resolve began to crumble. "And this one looks like ya got cut by some sorta sharp implement... I noticed them before but ya have never told me where ya got them."

He pulled her into a kiss, his own hands clamping over her shoulders before sliding down her arms to start skimming over her denim clad thighs, effectively bringing a halt her words.

"Michael…" she breathed his name when they finally broke free to take a breath. "You're still weak… I don't want to hurt ya… ya need ta -"

"What I need is ya… it's been two weeks, Fi… two weeks when the only time ya have touched me is when ya act like a nurse... I am better, I swear to ya… All I want is ya, right now."

Hands which had been caressing her thighs and back then slipped under her shirt, finally settling over her breasts, squeezing the soft mounds of flesh through her bra in a way which caused her breath to quicken.

"Michael…" she sighed his name in surrender and then in one move lifted her hips and began to kiss her way down his body, making sure to take care of all the tender spots along the way.

"Fiona, ya don-"

"I wanta." The fiery redhead looked up into his eyes and then slowly licked her lips as she pulled down his boxers, releasing his hardened length from the confines of striped cotton. Then with the lightest of touches, she swirled the tip of her tongue over the head of his manhood.

"Ya said we could do whatever I wanted an' this is it." She paused to revel at the effect she was having on the man she was beginning to fall in love with.

Fiona watched as his eyes seemed to darken and the way he bit down on his bottom lip as she breathed in his musky scent while licking him from base to tip. "I want ya ta let me do this for you."

In one move she swallowed him down until she felt him at the back of her throat and then hummed, her hands tightening their hold on his thighs as he writhed, his soft moans were like music to her ears.

Lost in the moment, she has no idea how long she lavished attention on her lover. It had been two _long_ weeks since they had last been intimate and now she had let down the barriers, her passionate nature had taken over completely.

He was close to coming, she could taste it and feel it in the way his hips jerked and his legs twisted underneath her.

"F-F-Fi... Fi-Ona." The fingers tangled in her hair pulled her off her stroke and demanded her attention. "Come here, I want ya."

Breathing heavily, she shook her head, fear of hurting him causing her to resist his plea.

"Please, Fi, I'll be careful. Come here, me darlin' girl, me love. Come on now, ya can't be so cruel." Her wicked Kilkenny boy cajoled as his fingers left her hair to cup her cheek.

"I wanta be inside ya... Ya want it too, I can tell."

"Michael! You're gonna burst a stitch."Grabbing his wrists, she forced him to let go, and pushed his arms firmly down onto the bed.

"Dinnae make me beg, sweetheart, please...?"

Unable to resist him any longer, Fiona cautiously let go of her lover's limbs and slipped off the bed. "D'ya promise, I mean, ya will tell me if I hurt ya?"

He nodded, smiling broadly now that he had gotten his way. Lifting his right hand, Michael drew an x over his heart. "Cross me heart," he promised in little more than a whisper.

That was all it took for her to slip out of her clothing in record time, tossing the garments on the floor without a thought… well, one thought, just one.

And seconds later, the wild Irishwoman was perched above where he wanted her most, where truthfully she had wanted to be as well, with the tip of his manhood pressing teasingly against the warmth of her center.

Leaning forward until they were skin to skin and almost nose to nose, Fiona gazed deeply into his eyes. She took note of the heavy rise and fall of his chest and the way his skin glistened with sweat from their recent activities."If ya don't behave you're going to end up doing some serious damage. Now are ya going to behave?" she growled softly.

Watching as he swallowed thickly, she waited until he was smiling up at her. "If ya stop now, you're the one whose gonna be the one doing some serious damage to me, sweetheart."

"Well, we can't be having that, can we?" Smiling mischievously, a slight shift of her hips was all that was necessary for her to slowly lower herself down, feeling him after a mild resistance slide into her sleek warm depths. Sighing heavily, she threw her head back and slowly began to rock against him.

His fiery lover had every intention of remaining that same slow, steady, _safe_ pace, but nothing prepared her for the intensity that had burned through her as McBride's hands had roamed over her body, driving her insane as his fingers rubbed, pinched and probed.

He came in a rush, pulling her down on top of him, his face buried in her hair, her name slipping from between his lips as in prayer and that slight change of angle was all it took to send her over the edge. All her good intentions flew out of the window as in a frenzy, her fingers like claws gripped his biceps tightly, her nails cutting through the stitches holding a particular deep cut closed.

The feeling of warm wet liquid under her hand, running between her fingers and Michael's yelp of pain broke the moment and with horror she had looked down at the crisp white sheet beneath her lover staining red.

"See, I told ya!" She had sat up sharply, causing his to wince. "I told ya! Ya weren't ready an' now look, blood all over me best sheets. I swear Michael McBride next time I have to go out I'm gonna knock ya out f-"

But she never finished her sentence because something abruptly interrupted her dreaming…

 **Miami 2009**

A sound, a click followed by low voices talking in little more than a whisper and Fiona's eyes flew open. In the same instance, she flipped off the sun lounger, biting back on a curse at the pain shooting through her arm as she had instinctively raised her weapon before her brain caught up to her body.

"Fiona?" The redhead bit down on another curse as she recognized the voice of Michael Westen. "Fi?"

She barely made it to her feet and lowered her H&K as two worried faces appeared in the doorway.

"I'm fine Michael."

"No, you're not; your arm is bleeding," he contradicted, as he closed the gap between them.

"I know me arm is bleeding, I'm not a fool." She glared first at her dark haired former boyfriend and then at his partner in crime as her temper began to rise to match the growing ache in her arm.

 _When caught out the best defense is a solid offense... Throw out counter accusations, deflect blame on to whoever is nearest..._ It was a mantra which she had followed since the earliest days of childhood. After all when you are one of seven, there was always somebody else handy to take the fall. Whether it was for a broken plate left in the sink or a neighbor finding his car wrapped around a lamp post _…... or hiding how much pain you were in after tumbling off a sun lounger._

"This is your fault, Michael Westen, yours and Sam's. What were you thinking trying to sneak up on me like that?"

"We thought you would be still sleeping... Here use this." With one blue eye warily watching her, Michael held out a handkerchief to staunch the blood staining her arm.

"Well, you thought wrong. You're lucky I didn't shoot you." Pressing the white cotton cloth over her wound, Fiona fought against the sudden sensation of light-headedness.

"We're sorry we startled you, right, Sam?"

"Sure, yea, sorry, Fi."

As soon as Michael had drawn her attention back to the other man present in the room, the fiery Irishwoman turned her ire in his direction. She had gotten over her lover's friendship with the man who had interrupted one of her lucrative gun deals years ago. Now she thought of Sam as a particularly annoying older, _far older…_ brother and as such he was fair game when it came to venting her anger.

Embarrassed at the sight she must be making with the over turned sun lounger, semi dressed and now bleeding, she was in no mood for Michael being so conciliatory. _What she wanted was a fight._

"You can stop talking to me like a child," she informed her caretaker curtly. "And – and you... " She turned her wrath onto Sam Axe. "What are you doing here anyway? Don't you have some rich widow to schmooze?"

"She's all yours, brother." The older man threw his hands up and sent his best friend a look of pity before backing away. "I need a beer."

"Stay outta my fridge, Sam."

"Don't worry, sister, I had to stock it myself. Tomato juice and vodka is no substitute for a good brewski."

"I said -" Fiona managed two steps in the direction of her target before she felt Michael's arms wrapping about her, pulling her back against his chest.

"Okay, that's enough. I think you need to calm down before someone gets hurt." The comfortable familiarity of being in her former lover's embrace, his soft breath on her neck and tickling her ear defused the sudden eruption of temper.

"Why don't we go to the bedroom and I'll stitch up your arm… _again_. Then you can rest up while I get lunch ready. I'll order something from Adrian's to make up disturbing you, how does that sound?"

"It sounds like you're back to treating me like a child or one of your damned clients." For all her harsh words, Fiona didn't fight as Michael slowly walked her back to the bedroom and eased her down onto the bed.

For a brief second, there was an awkward pause as they stared into each other's eyes. She knew exactly what was going through his mind as he gazed at her sprawled out semi naked figure; it was much the same as she had been thinking ever since he had grabbed hold of her a moment ago. A spark of playfulness quickly replaced the previous bout of bad temper.

"If ya won't let me out, isn't something else we could be doing? And I don't mean one more fecking game o' poker with Sam."

She watched with delight as the man who regularly faced down drug lords and hardened mercenaries without a qualm suddenly backed away his cheeks flushing. She wondered if he remembered the words he had spoken all those years ago to her. _Did he ever think back to those early days in their relationship with the same fondness she did?_

"Michael?"

"I, er, I'm going to get the supplies... I'll be back in a minute. Don't go anywhere." He almost ran for the door, speaking over his shoulder as he went.

Lying back, the petite Irishwoman stifled a laugh until the pain radiating from her arm caused her to wince.

It wasn't long before her dark-haired spy was back at her side, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows, carrying a small tray in his hands containing the necessary surgical tools to repair her damaged arm along with a small bowl of water, a couple of dressings and a small syringe filled with a clear liquid.

"Are you planning on knocking me out? I can take a few stitches."

"I know how tough you are, Fi. But it'll make it easier for me to stitch you back up if you're holding still." That expression of calm sincerity was back on his face. But now that she had had a chance to relax, pain and fatigue was urging her to take the easy path.

"It's really a waste of -"

Acting as though he had her permission already, Michael wasted no time. After one quick swipe with an antiseptic wipe, he plunged the needle into her arm a couple of inches above the still bleeding wound.

"OW! You bastard! A warning woulda been nice. I'm not a bloody pin cushion."

"I never said you were... You'll be feeling a lot better in a few minutes."

His gentle touch as he set about staunching the blood flow, which was little more than a trickle now soothed away her anger and she relaxed back. Stifling a yawn, she watched as he dried off her arm.

"So ,what have you and Sam been up to?"

"Nothing, we met up outside. I've spent an hour trying to gain access to Diego's apartment but they've still got it locked down tight... Sam is still looking into Strickler. I think he might have found something out, but that can wait."

"Strickler…" Even saying that snake's name left a bad taste in her mouth. "I warned you about him. If you want answers, you should let me question that bastard's friends. I'll get you your answers and I won't be needing any _Aloe Vera body lotion_ or fancy yogurt to do it."

"No, no, I just want you to get better – and stop pulling out your stitches."

"You're the fine one to talk about pulling out stitches, Michael Westen. I seem to remember you pulling out your share of sutures over the years... Belfast, that was the first time – and the second if my memory serves me right."

"You've been thinking about Belfast?"

"Haven't you? I mean with Sean visiting and all the bullet holes in both of us, I assumed it must have brought back a few memories."

She waited as he turned away, pretending he was having trouble threading the needle in preparation to sew the wound. "Michael? I -" She frowned, unsure how to phrase her next words.

"Sometimes it's best not to dwell on the past." His words surprised her. She had hoped deep down that playing McBride again and the way he had been so attentive over the last few weeks that he was beginning to see things differently.

She sucked in a breath and turned her head away. "Maybe... Sometimes you can't help but think of what might have been."

He was smiling now, not the fake grin which set her teeth on edge, but a genuine smile.

"I like what we have now... Not this exactly, I don't mean you getting shot, but um, er." She watched with dismay as years of seeing relationships as a weakness to avoid or in the case of others to exploit won the internal battle and his words faded to a mumbled half-truth. "I like that you'll be staying in Miami… you are staying, aren't you?"

"D'ya want me to?"

"If that's what you want to do…"

Her eyes narrowed as she bit down on her bottom lip in order to hold back a curse or maybe it was tears of frustration. They were back right at the place they always ended up, with Michael shying away from commitment, leaving her to decide whether she could accept that she would rarely be the first thing on his mind. So, she decided to take another approach.

 _Her chance to go home was gone now thanks to Thomas O'Neill outting Michael McBride as an American spy... But there was still plenty of other places she could go... But the truth was she didn't want to leave. Not if someone could give her a reason to stay.  
_

"Michael?"

"Yeah, Fi?"

"I um, I heard what you did to Strickler, but you've never explained why, at least not to me. So, ah."

Her sentence trailed away as Michael's expression became serious, his eyes taking on a faraway look. Then when he failed to answer, she prompted, "Michael?"

He seemed to shake slightly and when he finally looked back at her, the burned spy was back to his usual composed self. "Strickler told me you were my past, that I should let you go, that you were holding me back... But... You don't hold me back, you never have."

"So, you killed him because of a disagreement?" Though her heart warmed at this admission, her eyes widened in disbelief… the thought that Michael Westen, the man who only killed when absolutely necessary had shot another over a few misplaced words.

"No, not exactly. By bringing O'Neill into it, Strickler proved to me he couldn't be trusted... And that you would never be safe while he was alive." As he finished speaking, he effectively brought an end to what was for him was apparently a painful discussion by, without giving so much as a warning, thrusting the point of the needle into her arm.

She winced and clenched her teeth, doing her best to stay still.

"OWWWW!" _Tha bastard certainly had a way of ending a conversation._

"Hold still, I'm almost done."

"You are doing this on purpose." The fiery redhead let rip on her former boyfriend. Glaring up at the man she was no longer doubting she loved, Fiona turned her head away and gripped the edge of the pillow under her head as another wave of pain hit while Michael continued to close the wound.

"I'm not the one who torn your stitches out the second week in a row. Now stop moving or you're going to do some serious damage."

Her former lover's softly spoken words and the gentle touch of his hand as he wiped away a trickle of blood, reminded her sharply of his expression as he had cradled her in his arms after pulling her from the water.

 _But was it enough? Was him_ _attempting to ride_ _to her rescue every once in a while enough to build a meaningful relationship?_ _She didn't need saving, she needed to know he was going to be around_ _._

The former guerrilla winced again as the ex-spy began on the second suture, his light hold on her bicep tightening as she flinched away from the sharp pain.

 _Should she risk her heart and self-esteem on giving him one more chance?_ Through the haze filling her head as the sedative took effect, the Irishwoman reminded herself of the horror she had felt when she had thought she'd gotten the man she loved killed, those thoughts mingling with all the times he had risked his own life in order to help her over the years.

"I will do some serious damage to you when this is over I promise you that, Michael Westen. You have the sewing skills of an Orang-utan."

Though half open eyes she stared up at him. _The man was utterly infuriating. He had shaken her faith in him more times than she had fingers and toes. But in the end, when it came right down to the line, he always had done what was right…_ _and he had put her first when it mattered the most._

"There now you can kill me if you want to."

 _And she did want to kill him… Well, maybe just make him suffer immeasurably for a while anyway… Michael always made things harder than they needed to be in her opinion._

"I want to…" The words slipped from her lips as her fist flew. It is a lazy punch from a limb which felt unusually heavy and which annoyingly he blocked easily, though she was pleased with his yelp as her fist connects with his arm.

"Ouch…You should rest, there you go."

 _Doing your own field medicine has its advantages: No conversations with the police. The food is better and the relationship between patient and care giver is very close._

She really was tired now and the idea of falling into a deep sleep was very enticing, she just had one more thing left to do. Watching from under hooded eyelids, Fiona waited for the right moment.

Her target was smiling to himself, no doubt pleased with himself for dodging most of her questions. His touch was light as he applied the bandage to her damaged limb, which brought forth a warm glow, reminding her of when she had cared for him all those years ago.

"You're lucky these sedatives are kicking in, because I will kill you," she mumbled.

"I'll be here."

 _That's when it truly hit her…_ _It made no sense, but some part of her was convinced_ _that Michael would always be there… In the end, he couldn't just walk away from her._ Whatever he might do in the future, and she was sure he'd do something she would find insane at some point soon, by killing Strickler he had proven that she meant more to him than she'd thought.

Even as her mind finally caught up with what her heart had already worked out, the tactical part of her brain was sensing that the spy's defenses were down. Michael had finished securing the bandage and was very carefully positioning her arm on the bed.

Forming a fist she took one last swing and her features broke out in a broad smile as this time she made contact with her intended target.

"Gotcha."

And that's what it was… _Gotcha, in more ways than one…_

She just needed to keep getting behind his defences to remind him of what she now knew he already knew down in his heart… even if it sometimes took a fist to do it…

Snuggling down, she was barely aware of him leaving the room. She wasn't worried about him not being there anymore when she awoke. _They weren't just bad at this, they were downright awful… But for as long as he was around, she was going to be reminding him…who she was and who they were… together._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** ** _Because Jedi Skysinger and myself have created such a detailed back story for the Burn Notice characters, which we use in most of our stories and those posted as Jedi's Pal, I thought I would post another reminder that this particular story is completely separate to all my other stories._**

 ** _This part of 'The Irish Assignment' continues on from the previous chapter set in S3_** ** _The Dark Road,_** ** _as Michael and an injured Fiona reminisce about how she came to discover the love of her life was not who he claimed to be and what she did about it._**

 ** _A very belated birthday present for Bejeed, sorry it's so late..._**

 **THE IRISH ASSIGNMENT**

 **Part Five**

 **ooOoo**

 **Miami 2009**

It had been a little after six in the morning when Michael Westen had quietly entered the home of Fiona Glenanne. After leaving his mother's with a stern warning about the potential pitfalls of her budding friendship with Tina, the Dade County records clerk, he had ridden around for several hours. Driving along the back roads outside the city, he had been hoping to work on his plan to get Fiona's client Calia free from the gang of insurance fraudsters threatening her and her child's life.

" _We'll get these guys going on a scam, get them caught in the act and call the cops."_

That is what he had told the young Hispanic woman they would do as he and Sam had sat at Carlito's, apparently acting as the Irishwoman's employees, and he just needed to figure out an angle to do so.

However, even as he doggedly worked through his options before his meeting with Ryan Johnson and, presumably his father Connor, at the bar on Fifth Street tomorrow at noon, he couldn't help but think about troubles that came with becoming friends with an asset.

" _She's not an asset!" his mother had protested. "She's a person sitting at my dining room table._

" _I know that. Mom, it's dangerous. She broke the law."_

" _You said that that job was over."_

He had done his best not to lose it with her… His hands had suddenly taken on a life of their own and he'd had to physically restrain himself.

 _Remember, kiddies, the job is never over…_ Tom Card had drilled that into his head from day one at the Farm. But it wasn't his mom's fault she didn't know some of the most basic rules of tradecraft… _weapons grade manipulation yes, HUMINT no…_ He'd never wanted her involved before… In fact, Michael hadn't wanted her involved this time, but had had little choice in the matter if he was going to get what he needed.

" _Just don't get too close," had been his parting attempt at advice._

He was just trying to save his mother some heartache after all. _Why didn't she understand that this was for her own good? But when had Madeline Westen ever taken anyone's advice? Least of all his…_

 _How many times had he tried to tell her over the years they would have been better on their own, however much they might have struggled, than living with the unpredictable drunk that had been his dear old Dad?_

The dark haired man shook off the bitterness of his childhood with the relative ease of long practice and tried to refocus on what required his immediate attention in the present. But as he gathered the medical supplies needed to change Fiona's dressing, he was forced to admit that he found the problem of _retiring_ the Johnson crime family was far less challenging than his mom's disregard of the rules regarding assets

"What are you doing up so early?" the redhead queried as he tried to slip into her bedroom without waking her and utterly failing. Secretly, Michael had been hoping to watch her sleep a bit. It was a habit he'd picked up in Ireland once the spy had finally come to grips with the reality that he was going to have to leave her behind and one which had recently reasserted itself since he had nearly lost her… _permanently._

 _Although he tried very hard not to admit that… even to himself…_

"My mom…" Michael blew out a frustrated breath as he sat down on the bed next to his patient and began to cut the old bandages away to inspect the progress of the healing of her bicep.

Fiona tried to stifle a yawn unsuccessfully. She'd slept pretty badly the night before, _old demons coming out of their closets as it were…. partial memories of other close calls that had involved gunfire…_

"What about Madeline? Did something happen?"

"She was playing canasta and drinking with Tina last night."

"Well, that sounds dangerous…." she snarked, wincing as he cut the material away from her recently reopened stitches. "Your mom had some fun. Why is that a problem?"

"It's a problem because it _is_ dangerous. Tina is the woman from the county records office." Michael deposited the used dressing in the bedside wastebasket.

Fiona sighed and sat up as he pulled off a strip of fresh gauze.

"What are you worried about? So, your mom becomes friends with the county records lady. So what…?" the petite redhead asked, extending her arm as Michael wrapped it with a little too much force.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him, but just barely.

 _Anyone with a brain could see that what Madeline needed was a companion who shared her likes and dislikes and Tina the county records lady fit the bill perfectly_. _After all, that was why Michael had recruited his mother for the job in the first place._

"You just never know how things are going to go," he muttered, his whole focus on applying a thick covering to her bullet damaged limb. "She's an asset. Things could get very complicated."

"I was an asset of yours once," she reminded him softly.

"And things got complicated." He glanced sideways at her, his expression deadly serious as he continued. "And people got hurt."

"True," she agreed, wondering as she often did how much Michael thought about their mutual past. "But in my experience people get hurt and things get complicated no matter what you do."

She relaxed back onto the pillows, hoping he would take the hint and join her. _Was he thinking of the first time things got complicated for them?_ Images floated up from her sub-conscious. _Back then, they both got hurt, just in different ways._

"Maybe…" Michael conceded before extending a pair of white tablets towards her, plastering one of his best pleading expressions on his face. "How about you try not to hurt yourself anymore and get some rest?"

"Maybe…" She hated taking the pain killers but she knew she'd get little in the way of good sleep without them and she was really tired. "Maybe we could both do a better job of not getting hurt?"

Fiona handed him back the water glass, waiting for an answer, trying to read emotions he was determined to hide behind a friendly façade. The exhausted redhead let her eyes slide shut just for a moment and when she next opened them, the man she'd once known as McBride was gone.

 _How did she miss him leaving the room? How long was she out of it? Damn him for being so good at sneaking off without a goodbye…_

There was definitely something to be said for using Madeline Westen's personal pharmacy when it came to pain relief. Michael's meeting with the evil bastard that preyed on innocent people was at noon, so she had a quite a few hours to rest up before she needed to be up and ready to meet with her team to review the results of the dark haired man's approach. _She was the best at tactical analysis after all._

As she laid there waiting for the chemicals to kick in, Fiona let her mind drift.

 _Yes, she was thinking of those wild days gone by when she was robbing banks for the IRA and he – he was Michael McBride, the man of her dreams... Until he wasn't..._

That was why he had left without a goodbye then _…_

 _Except that first time, it had been her that had tried to make him leave._

Looking back on it, the former PIRA elite operative couldn't remember how long she had stood at her bedroom door inside her small terrace home in West Belfast, staring into the dark at the figure sleeping peaceful under the covers of her bed. She did remember it had been close to 4:00 AM on a hot sultry summer night and she hadn't managed to get any sleep at all.

 **ooOoo**

 **Belfast 1998**

 _Fer a patriot fightin' fer a cause, tha worse thing thot can happen is ta find yarself becomin' someone else's asset. Ya do all ya can ta avoid it, makin' sure thare's nothing tham bastid Brit interrogation squads can grab on ta and use as leverage. Ya move through life if nae exactly unattached, ya can never ferget thot tha only people ya can truly trust ar' yar family..._

Fiona tried to tell herself that it was the warmth and humidity that had made her stealthily slip out of the bed she was sharing with McBride, but sadly it was not. It was other darker thoughts which had sent her tip toeing in to the kitchen not to get a cool drink of water to quench her thirst, but instead to collect a long wickedly sharp knife she'd carefully sterilized earlier that day.

 _Ya learn early ta keep tha rest o' tha world at a distance. Ya seal yar heart away ta keep yar few trusted friends an' family safe, or as safe as possible in these troublin' times. Tis a hard way ta live but thare's a cold hard logic ta it. If ya love nothing then ya have nothing tha enemy can use against ya._

Crossing the threadbare carpet on bare feet, the lithe woman slipped out of her cotton dressing gown before carefully climbing back under the covers. Concealing the blade wrapped in a clean white handkerchief under her pillow, Fiona turned to face the still slumbering form of her lover, her confidante and the reason for her lack of sleep.

 _Nar hare's a word o' warning, if ya violate thot rule an' find yarself making a connection with someone special, ya've just handed yar enemies tha key to destroying nae only yarself but tha very cause which is yar world..._

Her dark haired lover was lying on his back, the bedding only covering his lower body. It felt like some sort of compulsion when she reached out to trail her fingertips delicately over his exposed chest, feeling the rock hard muscles under smooth soft skin and idly tracing an outline of a couple of the scars left by the shotgun pellet wounds from six months ago. _Those holes in his hide that led to her first doubts about McBride._

The doctor, a devoted supporter of the cause to unite the island of Ireland by whatever means necessary and who had been supplied by her brother Sean, had made several idle comments about his patient's old wounds while repairing the latest damage.

" _Am sure yar young fella will be fine, Miss Glenanne. Ya only have ta look at ham close ta see he has come through far worse than bein' peppered wit' shot."_

At the time, the doctor's diagnosis had pleased her no end. Knowing that McBride would recover had pushed her own thoughts about those old wounds to the far recesses of her mind. The feelings of such a near loss were too raw; she had nearly lost her lover the same way she had lost her sister, _as another bullet riddled corpse on a Belfast street._

It had only been weeks later when the petite paramilitary had eventually asked about all of his old scars and McBride had, after a lot of cajoling, told her a tale of a daring robbery which had gone terribly wrong.

" _Me two mates dinnae even make it back ta tha car. They musta triggered an alarm or mabbe some nosy passer-by guessed whot was goin' on an' called tha peelers. Anyhow, in tha end, I wa' tha only one who got away. But I caught a coupla bullets doin' it – nar how about ya tell me about thot little scar right thar?"_ and his fingers had caressed the pebbled flesh on her hip from a teenaged motor bike accident _._

He'd had other stories too, describing a variety of childhood accidents.

" _Nar luv, sorry ta be a disappointment. I wish I could say thot it's fram shrapnel. It would be a wonderful tale fer sure. But tis nothin' more than gravel rash fram a fall off a homemade go-cart…"_

But these little hints of a past life had been few and far between and usually had been ended by her voracious lover drawing her into his arms as a precursor to his mouth and hands ravishing every inch of her.

Fiona was so ashamed over how she had so easily fallen for his lies at the time. Maybe it had been his honest expression or his slow charming smile, which curved his lips and made the corners of his eyes crinkle… _whatever it was, she had believed every word he'd ever said._

Or maybe it had more to do with the way McBride could divert her to such a degree that she had accepted whatever lie he had told her as the truth _because she had so desperately wanted it to be so._ And he had been very good at being distracting, especially whenever they were working closely together…. _Had she really been so easy to fool?_

The anguished Irishwoman laid her hand flat over his deceiving heart, feeling the slow even beat of a man at peace with the world while her own heart was breaking as she prepared to end their relationship in the most permanent manner she could manage.

Watching him sleep, trying to steel her resolve to do what she had to do, memories began to swirl through her head of all those good times, like the time she had insisted on giving him a lesson in sniping. _Lying side by side in the soft earth overlooking an old farm building on the outskirts of Antrim... Their bodies so close together…_

The wavering woman gulped as a tear had formed in the corner of her eye. _She didn't have to do this... There had to be another way..._ But the mind of the paramilitary guerrilla she was fought back against her protesting heart crushing the fleeting thoughts of mercy… _Quit yar whining, he played ya and he's gonna get ya killed or worse..._

Her fingers strayed to the concealed blade as her upbringing urged her to act without further delay, to end the traitor in her bed. But instead of freeing the knife from its improvised sheath, she stayed her hand… _She was nae ready yet… She still had time. It wouldnae be light fer another hour... She had ta be sure…And she had wanted to know why, why her?_

But deep down she knew she would never get a straight answer to her questions.

After Michael had been shot while trying to help her save a partner in crime, things had started to move far faster than she was used too. Before long, McBride had no longer been just a perfect boyfriend with a pretty face and a great body keeping her bed warm at night. During those short weeks of his convalescence, the bastard had used that time to burrow his way into her heart and set up little nest in her soul.

 _They had shared long lust filled stares over reloading bullets, hands lightly touching as they had both reached for the gun cleaner… Or the time where prone on the ground, her hands had wrapped round his, her voice in his ear, breathing in his scent… Her body had lain tight against his as she had tutored her lover in the fine art of using a sniper rifle…_

 _Then there was the way he leaned over her shoulder, his body pressed firmly against hers, his breath tickling her neck or his teeth delicately nibbling on her ear as she had showed him her bomb making skills or more often when they had prepared a meal in their tiny kitchen._

One occasion had stood out in her mind more than the rest. _It had been after one of those long intimate sessions of late night bomb-making that they had gone on an assignment for the Cause. They had stood on a hill a mile away from a factory that prepared and supplied food to Maghaberry Prison as the building suddenly erupted into flames._

 _She could have sworn on that night she had felt a spark of electricity passing between them, the intensity of his gaze telling her he shared her love for all things that went boom… Had any part of their time together been real?_

But as suddenly as those recollections of their good times had arisen and stayed her hand from executing her plan, they were crushed mercilessly by a life time of memories of what happened to those who betrayed the Cause. _She had come to terms a long time ago with her own risk of_ _torture and eventual death, as it wasn't only the IRA who used violence to make a point. If taken by the opposing so-called loyalist forces there was an equal risk of a painful death. Her own father had been beaten to death while interned._ _No, to die for the cause was an honor, but to die a traitor's death that would bring shame to her family – never._

Fiona continued to gaze at her traitorous lover's slumbering shape, wondering how much of it all had just been a game to him. But then, as if knowing his life was on the line, one of his hands moved in his sleep, his long supple fingers interlacing with her own over his heart, a sigh escaping his mouth as he turned on to his side to face her.

The redhead found herself staring longingly at his mouth, _his gorgeous very kissable mouth_. She watched as the tip of his tongue flickered out to wet his lips, her eyes focusing intently on that oh so clever tongue, _that lying, deceitful so very supple tongue that had on so many occasions driven her wild_. She licked her own lips before giving in, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on his lower lip.

 _Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt and a chance to defend himself._ Even in his sleep, Michael returned the kiss just as she liked to be kissed, with the perfect amount of pressure – _just like the highly trained professional he is_ , her suspicious mind added.

 _Was he even Irish? No, more likely he was English, working for either MI5 or was even one of the hated SAS murderers..._ It wasn't a conscious decision when her hand came free from his and her fingers stroked through his messy dark hair. Nor when a single tear escaped from her eye and rolled down her cheek onto the pillow.

 _How had she got herself into this mess?_

Trying to shore up her courage to do what she must, Fiona forced herself to review exactly how she had allowed herself so become so entangled with McBride, a man who could be the brutal and bloody death of her now at the hands of her own family and her associates

She had thought nothing of it when her usual driver Joseph Clayton had been dragged from his home during an early morning raid involving a half a dozen policemen. In their line of business, being subjected to dawn raids by the local law enforcement was one of the dangers of the job.

It had been bad for him and damned inconvenient for her, but not the end of the world. The PIRA operative had been convinced it'd been a mistake. _After all, why was only he being dragged in for questioning and not her whole gang?_

It had been later that day when she had gotten the news from his lawyer that Joe was being held over a robbery committed five years earlier. New evidence had come to light placing him at the scene of a brutal armed assault on a Derry bank that had left several civilians injured.

 _He wasn't going to be released any time soon._

Under normal circumstances, it would not have bothered her too much; after all, incarceration was an occupational hazard. _But she'd had a big meeting coming up and had planned to use her most trusted driver._

Fund raisers from the United States were due to arrive the following day, expecting to be taken on a tour of the city before going to meet with senior IRA chieftains to see what their dollars were being spent on. Fiona had needed a good reliable driver, as she had been given the important task of ensuring the men's security for the duration of their stay.

" _Ya would be doing me a big favor."_ She had stared up at her lover, her hands stroking down his strong arms. _"Joseph's arrest means Am short a driver and I will nae have tham bastids on tha council sayin' I messed up."_ McBride had smiled back at her and readily agreed to help without even asking who he would be collecting from the airport or where he would be taking them.

The redhead recalled the warm glow which had filled her heart as he had taken those first steps fully into her world _. They were working together officially for the first time!_ She had seen such a bright future for them, an unstoppable force, an Irish Bonnie and Clyde, creating mayhem and wreaking havoc on the forces which had invaded her beloved Ireland.

 _A month later, her whole world had collapsed about her._

It had been early in the morning that she had received a call from her commanding officer, a man she had known since childhood, whose orders she would follow without question.

" _We have a rat, Fiona, a bloody fecking rat an' when I find tham whoever they ar', Am gonna make tham beg fer me ta end thar miserable worthless life."_ Her blood had run cold as her friend had raged down the phone, breaking all the rules of secrecy in the process.

" _Whot's wrong? Whot's happened, Ioan?"_

" _Our American friends have been arrested by tha feds, thot's whot's wrong. One o' tham got away but he wa' wounded. Wa're waiting ta hear if he makes it ta a safe house."_

" _Should we be talkin' about this, like this, I mean– "_

" _Ya're nae listening ta me, girl, tis tha FBI thot is doin' tha arrestin' an' not only thot, thar Coast Guard has captured a fishin' boat carrying cargo fer us... We have a rat in tha ranks an' it wonnae be long befer we have Special Branch knockin' on all our doors. We need ta find tha Yank's informer an' fast."_

Stunned by the news, Fiona had intended on waking her sleeping lover there and then, but her attention had been taken over by the TV screen in the corner of the living room. The PIRA operative had slowly sunken down onto the old sofa, the one they had carried together from the second hand shop two streets away, and listened as a representative of the Northern Ireland Police Service had smugly announced the discovery of two arms dumps believed to be full of weapons belonging to the IRA.

As the petite paramilitary had sat there and watched the interview continue, everything had begun to fall into place. _It had felt as like someone close to her had died._ With a cold and heavy heart, she had informed her lover of the loss of two weapon caches and then asked McBride to go out and see what he could learn from the streets.

" _Go see Tracey down at tha bicycle repair shop. He has his ear ta tha underground. I'll stay har in case Ioan calls back."_

With Michael out of the way for at least an hour, _Mr Tracey could talk the hind leg off a donkey_ , Fiona had conducted a thorough search of their home and the discovery of several bugs had removed all doubt and at that moment, she had truly realized exactly how big a fool she'd been.

The Irishwoman had wanted to kill him there and then... _She had wanted to rage like a banshee and smash up their home so it too resembled her broken heart..._

But somehow she had done neither.

 _Killing him right then would not get her the answers to the questions that were burning holes in her heart and in her soul._

So instead, Fiona had returned everything to its place, including the bugs, and with great difficulty she reined in the killing rage burning in her heart. Then McBride had returned home with more bad news from bicycle shop.

" _Word is thot tha police ar' preparing fer a whole bunch o' coordinated night raids on tha membership. We should leave, get ahold o' yar brother Sean ta help us."_

He had wrapped his arms about her in a tight hug, the concern in his beautiful blue eyes appearing so sincere that it had almost made her doubt herself. But the guerrilla she was had forced her to stand firm.

" _We stay hare fer now. It'll take tham days ta get tha numbers they'll need ta come after us all in one go,"_ the fiery redhead had informed him coldly, using the flat of her hands against his chest to break his hold. Then picking up her coat, she had gestured to the door. _"Right nar I need ya ta drive me across town... Ioan has called a meetin' an' when we get thare ya will have ta wait outside. Am sorry ta be draggin' ya out, but I donnae wanta travel alone."_

The meeting had been exactly what she had been expecting, the big men of the Cause saber rattling and demanding revenge for the losses. Already numb with pain, she had listened to what was being said: _The traitor was to be found and made an example of as a warning to anyone else thinking of betrayal. The infamous IRA interrogators were getting ready to do their work, implements of torture being unwrapped and laid out in secret locations. They were expecting to be kept quite busy_.

When the talk had turned to what retribution would be taken on the lists of suspects were being drawn up, her thoughts had turned to the innocent men who were going to suffer because of her own bad judgment and cowardice at not putting Michael McBride's name at the head of the list of potential traitors.

But the thought of the man she had loved being broken and bloody, his handsome face unrecognizable, had been too much for her at the meeting and it had been too much for her in the early hours of the following morning as she had stood in the doorway of their bedroom before sliding into bed next to him, blade secreted under her pillow at the ready to do its deadly job.

So despite spending the wee hours before dawn reminding herself of when and how he had betrayed her, she was unable to help herself. She leaned in for another kiss. This one deeper, as her lips pressed tightly against his, her fingers scratching lightly along his spine.

 _In that moment, Fiona both loved and hated him in equal measure, her emotions confused to the point that she began to act on pure instinct._

His eyes flickered opened, still unfocused from sleep. She stroked his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble on the palm of her hand as another unbidden image flashed into her mind: _Michael lying out in the street, his body desecrated beyond words as an example to the British and those who supported their overlords_.

 _What would happen to him when the others realized the same things she had? If she didn't act now, sooner or later, she would see what was left of McBride dropped in some public spot, not to mention what might happen to her in the process…. He was a lying piece of scum, but she loved him. However, that didn't mean she could let him do any more harm to her people._

"Good morning, luv." His smile even upon first awakening was dazzling to the young woman and when he gently placed his palm against her cheek, she had automatically leaned into his touch.

"Have ya been cryin'?" He thumbed the moisture from her cheek and at the same moment rolled onto his back bringing her with him, so she ended sitting astride him.

"Bad dream?" her lover asked as his hands skimmed lightly up and down her naked thighs.

 _Why does he have ta look so bloody concerned fer me welfare?_

"Am fine, Michael, better than fine. Yer right, twas just a bad dream which… " She tried to smile, but as soon as she looked into those treacherous blue eyes, Fiona found herself weakening, her smile faltering.

 _This is nae who I am... Am Fiona fecking Glenanne... I have tha blood o' Irish kings flowin' through me veins. Am nae gonna let a pretty face turn me ta a snivelin' little girl…_

"Ya look beautiful…" She was very conscious of his hands on her thighs, his thumbs lightly drawing circles on the inside of her legs, ever so slowly moving closer and closer to their ultimate target. "But ya always do…"

" _Seduction o' tha enemy is a nasty job, but we bear it cuz we must. Thare ar' times when ya feel like yer wrestlin' an octopus an' others – well, ya… ya jus' have have ta close yar eyes an' remember why yer makin' tha sacrifice. Tis all fer tha Cause, fer our brave boys…. If one of us can distract a guard so our lads can slip by unseen or use our charms ta learn patrol routes an' passwords then every ugly second o' whot we do is worth tha shame... We do whotever it takes."_

The voice of a distant relative whispered in the Irishwoman's brain, reminding her of her own special status as a highly skilled operative. _Nobody would dare think of ordering her to sleep with the enemy to gain information..._ But Michael McBride, if that was even his real name, was doing precisely that.

All of a sudden, her conflicted emotions overflowed. _He had done this to her, he had turned her into such a quivering wreck…He had used her own fool heart against her. Damn him!_

With a passion filled growl, she threw herself forward until they were nose to nose. Fiona could feel the fire in her heart surging throughout her body into her heated gaze.

"Fi…" His voice cracked as he whispered her name and the slight tremor, that mixture of hesitation and lust, which she heard in that one word was like an aphrodisiac to her.

She was on him like a lioness, their teeth actually clashing as her lips sealed over his, refusing to let up the pressure until he surrendered and their tongues swirled together in battle. Meanwhile, her fingers like claws scraped across his scalp and threatened to rip out his hair as they combed roughly through the unruly curls.

When she finally allowed her dark haired lover to breathe, the fiery Irishwoman furiously rubbed her cheeks over his stubble, the friction heightening her pleasure-pain sensations, before she shimmied down his body, her teeth biting and nipping all the way. His chin, throat… then suddenly biting so hard into his shoulder his whole body bucked, but he didn't throw her off.

"Hey, no fair, I barely have me eyes open." Strong fingers dug into her arms as McBride, or whoever he really was, tried to take back some control.

"Whot ya made ya think this wa' gonna be a fair fight?" She snapped back then she bounced with as much force as she could muster, eliciting a pained filled gasp from the man she was riding.

Using the distraction to free her arms from his grip, the wild woman returned to her assault of the man writhing beneath her. Sharp nails dragged down his chest and over his nipples, evoking more pain-filled moans from her traitorous lover.

"Ow! Hey! Fi, whot tha hell…?"

The yelp was music to her ears as she sucked and then nipped where her fingers had just been. Fiona slid lower and lower… marking each and every rib with a scratch or a bite on the way down… and as she did, the flames burning in her soul spread outwards.

But along with the scorching passion came another distant memory, whispering a warning.

" _Fall in love? Nae child…"_ The voice of that same relative laughed mockingly in her ear. " _Though some did, Am sure, silly girls tha lot o' tham… I never forgot tham British bastids wa' tha enemy. Fer some though I guess it wa' hard, ta become someone's best friend, thar lover an' even their confidante as a ploy ta steal thar deepest secrets or even better ta make 'em betray their own men… But fer me, I always kept it in me mind it wa' a time o' war an' whot I wa' doin' was nae different than bein' a spy."_

" _SPY…!"_ The word rang through the petite paramilitary's head, making her pause in her efforts to give him some small taste of the pain he'd given her, and look up into the eyes of the man who had caused her so much soul wrenching anguish.

McBride stared back at her, his startled blue eyes gazing at her with such adoration that for a moment her fevered mind offered her a slither of hope. _How could he not be in love when he looked at her that way?_

Strong hands cupped her cheeks, calloused palms slowly drew her back up his lean muscular body until soft lips gently brushed over her own in a light kiss. Supple fingers were combing through her tousled auburn locks as he laid more and more gossamer kisses along her cheek and onto her neck.

For several seconds as they lay, bodies molded together, she allowed herself to think things were going to be alright. But then she remembered:

 _Joey Clayton locked away on trumped up charges…. Two important fund raisers imprisoned or on the run… The loss of a shipment of arms… Two local stashes in the hands of the police… And whatever else he had discovered while betraying her confidence…_

The reminder of his crimes swirled through her brain breaking the spell. Pulling away abruptly, Fiona sat up, her sharp features twisting into anger as she drew her right arm back, her open hand swiftly delivering a stinging blow to his left cheek, hard enough to hurt but insufficient to do any serious damage.

"Whot tha hell, girl…? Whot's wrong with ya?" She saw the confusion in his eyes and then as a tightly packed fist came towards his lying mouth, his own hand swept up and blocked the attack.

"Yer a bastid, McBride!" Fiona declared furiously, sending a punch with her free hand flying towards his face.

"Whot did I do ta ya?" he demanded, capturing her other hand before she could deliver the blow, fear beginning to taint his expression of confusion.

"Fight me," the petite partisan ordered with a growl. "Fight back... I want ya ta try ta take me."

Suddenly, his look turned into one of pure lust. _The mere hint of danger and the chance of violence was foreplay to them both. But this time, Fiona was struggling within her own soul as much as she was battling with him in the bedsheets._

From being almost placid, McBride now used his superior strength to twist and turn, wrestling with the fiery virago perched on his chest. A violent twist and he had her beneath him, pinning her down to the mattress, his hands gripping her wrists and pressing them down into the pillow above her head, his thighs separating her legs, legs which were now raised and wrapped about his hips holding him fast. For a second or two they stared into each other's eyes, almost nose to nose, each breathing heavily.

"D'ya surrender?"

"Never…!" She lifted her head and attempted to bite the nose which was so temptingly close, but Michael jerked back before her teeth could snap together.

Not to be thwarted, the auburn haired siren tightened her grip on her lover's hips, her heels beating a tattoo on the faux Irishman's behind.

"Never ya say? Well, I'll have ta see about thot." McBride's smile grew wider, as he lifted his hips, his stiffened manhood sliding down over her belly, leaving a trail of moisture in its wake, a sure sign of the dark haired man's arousal.

Her eyelids fluttered as her heart beat faster. _She wanted him… She hated him…_ _She needed him inside her now…!_ Fiona could feel the tip of his member lightly rubbing over the folds of her womanhood and her hips lifted to meet his, her mouth closing over the lips of the man she loved in a long deep kiss.

After the merest hint of resistance, she opened up to him completely and he slowly slipped inside. Then he was pounding into her, his hands planted firmly on either side of her head, the friction of their joining driving her senses wild and for a brief time driving all thoughts of traitors and spies from her tortured mind.

A thin film of sweat covered both of the lovers as they writhed and tumbled on the bed, the sheet which had earlier covered them now tangled around their feet. Suddenly feeling the need to be back in control, the Irishwoman shoved on his shoulders, twisting until she was back on top.

Tossing her long hair back, she mercilessly rode McBride towards their joint orgasms. Closing her eyes, Fiona was barely aware of her lover's hands tight grip on her waist, his fingers digging into her hips as he urged her on with each rise and fall of his pelvis. She felt his release as warmth spread through her belly and then with a soft cry, she allowed herself to come, her body shaking as she was engulfed in a tidal wave of euphoria.

Collapsing forward as her limbs continued to tremble, the young Irishwoman raised her head to look into the eyes of the man she loved with her whole heart. _They could make this work… He had to love her as much as she loved him._

"Fiona, me darlin' girl, I cannae think o' finer way ta be woken up." Michael followed up his words by a deep long lingering kiss. When they broke apart, the adoration shining in his clear blue eyes was more than she could handle. "I'd love nothin' better than ta do thot every day fer the rest o' me life, me luv…"

 _Maybe she could turn him to her Cause… He really did love her… She would find a way…._

Her sated lover lazily lifted one arm to take a look at his watch, his eyes widening as he realized exactly how early it was in the day. With his arm back in place resting over her back, he spoke again.

"Whot d'ya think? As wa're up so early, why dontcha give yar brudder a call? We really should get over ta tha south befer tha army comes looking fer us... Ya war as white as a sheet last night after tha meeting… Mabbe Sean could put us in touch wit' tha underground –"

She didn't hear the rest of his words. _Tha underground!_ _Tha bastid made love ta me an' then tha first words outta his mouth wa' ta ask about tha underground._ It was more than she could bear.

Tears sprung into her eyes, misting her vision. But that didn't matter because her hand had already closed about the handle of the hidden blade. Rising up so suddenly he didn't even get a chance to see the razor sharp weapon in her hand, Fiona struck downward the deadly blade slicing into the spy's side, covering her own leg with warm wet blood.

"Yer a bastid, McBride, if thot's even yar name," she choked out, barely able to speak between the sorrow and the fury fighting for control of her voice.

 **ooOoo**

 **Miami 2009**

Fiona Glenanne's eyes flew open and sat up, her breaths coming in short sharp gasps. Still partially in shock, she looked down at her shaking hands expecting to see blood dripping from them. Her arm protested the treatment and the pain seemed to help her center on the present.

 _Michael McBride had died that morning, at least he had to her._ He had been replaced by another man, a man who had been there earlier bandaging her bullet wound. She took a long deep shuddering breath in an effort to push away dark memories of her past. _That was another time_.

On the bedside table her cell phone was vibrating its way across the wooden surface. Reaching for the device, she stared at the small screen. It seemed while she had overslept, she had missed a series of texts and apparently a phone call just now. But the burned spy was not the only person who had been trying to get ahold of her. There were messages from her client as well.

Fiona laid back sighing as she glanced over to where the sunlight was streaming through the gauze curtains surrounding her bed through heavy eyelids while rubbing her fingers lightly over the cloth that covered her wounded arm. _She had been out for more than six hours… Madeline's choice of pain killer was potent indeed…_ But the drug induced memories had left her feeling anything but well rested, her heart beat only now beginning to return into a normal rhythm.

Scrolling through the messages, the unsettled redhead learned that Michael's initial meeting had been a success and he was on his way to Boca Raton on some further mission to gain the confidence of the Johnsons, which meant he'd be gone for a couple of hours at the very least.

Ms Glenanne also discovered that some men had followed Calia to her apartment block from her son's school, which made her very angry at both their presumption and her current lack of tactical awareness. _She should have seen this coming…_

With their plans clearly moving forward to get the murdering bastards caught committing a crime, her client was going to be a sitting duck staying at home. As much as she enjoyed having her own space, the mother and child would be much safer temporarily hiding out at her place.

A quick call settled the matter. While Calia had tried to refuse her hospitality, Fiona knew the young Hispanic woman was actually relieved by the offer. That done, the Irishwoman stretched and yawned, belatedly realizing as she went to clear the voicemail that it was from Michael.

 _When had Michael Westen ever bothered to call and check in during an operation?_

Listening to the whispered words of his cover ID's southern accent set her mind at odds again.

The former PIRA operative had gone from reluctant acceptance that the handsome dark haired man with the devil may care smile whom she thought had loved her back in Ireland was not the man she'd been helping these past couple of years in Miami and their long term relationship was over to the cautious anticipation that there might be something more for them in the future.

" _People are who they are. They don't change just because you want them to."_

" _So you're still in love with him_."

But it seemed as though the super spy had changed… and she _was_ still in love with him…

 _Michael had shot Tom Strickler, effectively burying his chances of getting back in along with the hot lead in to that insufferable weasel's body. Michael had been at her side night and day since a stray bullet had clipped her bicep and O'Neill's words had gotten her permanently banned from returning to Eire. Michael had agreed to help her client instead of pursuing his own interests._

As hard as it had been to make the choice a few short weeks ago to permanently leave the States and Mr Westen behind and go back home, thinking about it now she knew that decision had been nothing compared to the conflict within her when she had discovered who and what McBride was on that too warm summer's day back in Belfast. _They had come through so many hard times and despite his selfish insistence on getting his old job back, they were somehow still together…_

Fiona licked her suddenly dry lips as she remembered the look on his grief stricken face once he had pulled her bleeding from what had almost been her watery grave.

Heaving another sigh, the redhead set about trying to regain her feet. _Calia_ _needed her help before the next phase._ _She needed to get up and get moving and stop lying about uselessly._

Shooting off a coded text promising to meet him later, the young Irishwoman stood up, feeling dizzy at both the sudden drop in blood pressure and in the renewed hope of something more.

 _They truly were no good at this… but at least now they would get the opportunity to try to be better…..._

 **OOO**

 _Lastly a big thank you to Jedi Skysinger, not only for the BETA, but for all her extra input into this chapter which is really a collaboration between us both._

 _Coming very soon on the main page revised and new chapters of one of my old stories, Two Hours Too Late._


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